Studies in Grey and Burgundy
by whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp
Summary: Teenlock. John is new at St. Benedict's school (yeah I know). Basically, they solve some cases. Features fluffy johnlock, quite a bit of angst. Written from both John &Sherlock's POV 3P. Cases approx 12 chpt so you don't have to struggle through! TW: self harm and domestic abuse, but it will all end happily I promise. Rated T for murder, angst and swears. Please review
1. a Classical Kidnap - Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**JOHN**  
'crap, crap, crap' the word drummed through his head with the rhythm of his feet hitting the gravel track. Late, on his first day?! His parents were going to kill him. The pain of the early rise still weighed him down, and it was an awful long way to walk, well further than down the stairs certainly. He knew why this year had to be different of course, he had to take exams, and he couldn't do that at home; all the same, he wasn't enjoying it much so far. John Hamish Watson kept on running.

The red brick building loomed up ahead of him, the few windows shut tight and the yard was almost silent, only 3 student where left outside. The boarding house was just visible in the distance, clouded by fog. John lowered his head on approach and stopped running. Apparently, that wasn't a done thing, as the older kids boys looked at him mockingly and laughed to themselves, very loudly. Overall, not a very friendly image.

"Hey, gay boy!" John looked round, where they talking to him? "Yeah, you, what are you doing here?"  
"I, umm, I go here, to this school," he really hoped they didn't here the waver in his voice, he wasn't scared, just uncomfortable. This had never happened at home. well, a bit…  
"Haven't seen you 'round, you with the freak? You'd make a good couple" a rousing chorus of laughs and "gay boy!"  
"No, I, excuse me" staring right at the ground John walked forward as fast as he could without running.  
"Hey, come back! We're not done with you." He burst through the doors and breathed a sigh of relief. Wow. School sure was turning out to be a bundle of laughs.

**SHERLOCK**  
Late. Again. But why did it even matter? Why did they care, really, surely it was the mind that mattered, not the stupid rules. Oh well, it looked like Mr Morris had turned up late again too.

He took his usual seat near the back of the dull room and bent low over the desk, pulling his hair down over the black eye. Only 3 more days and the bruise would start to go down. He'd read about it. He'd read about everything, nearly. It wasn't exactly a hero's battle scar.

The peeling door opened and Mr Morris, the head of history entered the room. Tall, overweight and frowning. Still hasn't marked last terms papers, Sherlock sighed, probably because he's so busy with his wife, oh, or not. Tut tut sir, he smirked, playboy, really? And to take it into a class in a brief case? Without a lock?! Why couldn't some people just think?

The teacher sat down giving some awful excuse as to his time of arrival and began to take a register. Sherlock mumbled "here" when his name was called. I mean really? Didn't Mr Morris have eyes? Could he not see who was here?

A sudden loud bang.  
"I am so sorry, Mr... Urm, sir, I, umm, couldn't find the classroom"  
Everyone in the room looked up, a boy stood in the doorway. Short, blonde and looking very confused. Home schooled, Sherlock muttered.  
"Take a seat," Mr. Morris looked like he was about to explode, but he was clearly agitated and wanted to get on either the lesson.

**JOHN**  
Mortified, John walked slowly to the back of the class. There was only one empty desk. The teacher had gone back to the register and was getting out a folder, probably full of marked papers. John sat down, not understanding what was going on, he turned his attentions on his fellow students. Mostly just a blurred mass of the backs of heads and grey blazers, but a few stood out. A petit girl with a long blonde plait down her back; two boys who looked like twins who sat at the front; the girl in front of him with mousy hair, parted in the centre, wearing her green and red tie over her collar at the back. Somebody should tell her.

However, her wonky tie couldn't interest him for long, prehistoric medicine didn't much either, his attention was caught by the boy sitting two seats away to the left in the row in front. His dark, curly head flat on the desk surface, which was scratched and had all sorts of graffiti on it. A scarf poked out of his blazer pocket and that seemed to be it. No bag, no text book, not even a piece of paper. John was no expert, but he was pretty sure they were required to take notes...

**SHERLOCK**  
Sherlock had looked up the minuet the door opened, hastily flattening his hair back over his left eye. Usually the other students in St. Benedict's didn't pay him any attention and he returned the favour, they were all boring anyway. But this new boy seemed interesting. An outsider, like him.  
The hairs prickled on the back of Sherlock's neck, he could feel a pair of eyes boring into his back, but he daren't turn around, Mr Morris would probably use it as an excuse to pick on him for answers, which was easy enough, if you'd been listening to the question. He didn't want to relive the last experience, his parents had not been happy with a less than perfect report from their youngest son.  
He'd have to ask him after class.

The bell rang and Sherlock sprang to his feet, sweeping forward down the ailes between desks and towards the desk.  
"Not you, Holmes, we need to talk,"  
Great. Again. Mycroft was going to have a field day.

**JOHN**  
Upon leaving the class room, John had no idea what to do next. He knew no one, he didn't know where anything was, where to go next. He didn't even have a timetable, let alone know how to find his room later. He stood outside the door, alone on the sea of people, trying to pluck up the courage to say "excuse me".

"Hello." John gasped and turned around  
"God, you scared me half to death,"  
"Oh," awkward silence followed.  
"Sherlock Holmes." he extended a hand.  
"John, Watson, listen, you don't, by any chance know, I, uh, where I need to..."  
"Home-schooled", it wasn't a question.  
"Uh, yeah, how did you..."  
"I noticed. We have maths now, up stairs." and that was it. He was gone as quickly as he appeared. 'What?' John thought to himself 'is wrong with him?' then again, he was the only person who had spoken to him all day, well apart from the older boys.

"there he is!" a loud shout of meticulous glee sounded from upstairs, john looked up at the ceiling.  
"Freak. Given up on carrying stuff round with you, scared we'll rip it up like last time?!"  
"No. I don't need to."  
"Need to what? Get some friends because I think you do freak, really you do"  
"No. I don't need to take notes, I have a memory longer than that of a goldfish, you see."  
John took the stairs two at a time, he heard a loud a crash and jearing.  
"Pity that, your massive brain couldn't help you there!" slam. "Oh, and you were just about recovering weren't you, from last time, shame." slam.  
A bell sounded. The corridor emptied surprisingly quickly, until it was just John, Sherlock and the two older boys. "I'll see you around freak, homo"

**SHERLOCK**  
Lungs. Skull. Fibula. Suspected bruising ad minor sprains. David Dilworth really did know something then. Sherlock closed his eyes tight; maybe it would all go away.  
"Are you alright?" he didn't move  
"Sherlock?" he opened his eyes a little and moaned.  
"Do you have a school nurse of something?"  
"I'm fine," he tried to get up but winced.  
"No you're not, come on, my dad's a doctor, I can help,"  
"That doesn't give you any qualification. I'm fine." Sherlock turned and walked away, Mrs Higgs was not going to be happy. None of the teachers seemed to be today.  
"Sherlock, you're bleeding, wait!" a trickle of blood was running down his high cheekbone. He pulled out the scarf and pressed it hard against his face. I don't cry, I do not cry he thought over and over.


	2. CK - Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**SHERLOCK**  
"detention again, little brother, what on earth did you do this time?"  
Sherlock stormed upstairs without saying anything, He wasn't going to give Mycroft the satisfaction.  
"Sherlock?" a voice from sitting room. Mother.  
Ugh. What did they want now! Could he not just be left alone for 3 minutes? All he wanted to do was sit in his room and read, did they really have to take that away from him too?!  
He could hear them whispering in the hallway, well, very carrying whispers. Mycroft would tell them everything. They weren't going to be happy.

**JOHN**  
That night, John couldn't sleep. He guessed it was to do with being in a new place, the boarding house made him feel extremely uncomfortable. All he could think about was school; the teachers who seemed determined to make your life misery, the older boys that had teased him and attacked his friend. Friend. Where they friends? John had always been the kind of person who didn't trust easily, he guessed it came from home-schooling, yet here he was. Friend. He had never had a friend, then again, if their tormentors where to be believed, Sherlock hadn't either. The new room didn't help either. Blank walls, one window. There was only space for a bed and a small chest of drawers. Nothing else.

All through dinner, he couldn't eat anything; his head was full of the strange boy with the black curls. John vowed that he would talk to him the next day, even if he was just asking for a pencil, though Sherlock didn't have any stationary, or books. Maybe, he just remembered it all. No, that was impossible; there wasn't that much space in someone's head! Was there?

His parents had asked of course when he'd phoned, 'how was your first day?' and he had replied with the excepted 'fine'. What did they expect? 'oh it was great mum, I was harassed before I even got in the building, embarrassed by first lesson, only talked to one person and then watched them get beaten up, I am loving it!' He set an alarm on his phone for the next early morning, painfully early, and climbed into bed.

**SHERLOCK**  
A shrill ringing woke Sherlock at half past 6. It was still dark outside. He groaned and rolled over, clutching his knees in a foetal position.  
"come on dear brother, early to rise," Mycroft poked his smirking face through the doorway.  
"do everyone a favor and piss off, Mycroft" Sherlock buried his head deeper into his pillow.  
"big day ahead, mother says you porridge is going cold"  
"I don't even like porridge,"  
"well then you're not getting any breakfast, are you?!"  
"I don't need to eat"  
"If you say so, but you do need to get out of bed though, or you'll be late, again."

The frosty morning air bit at his throat and the grass crunched a little under foot. Pulling his scarf tighter round his neck, he turned left along the gravel drive to the dark red building. They called it a school; he called it a torture house of boredom. Maybe he could find John and talk to him. He seemed more interesting than everyone else. Sherlock felt a weird connection to him, perhaps because he had yet to show as much stupidity as the rest of the school, perhaps because they were both outsiders. Who knew?

As he approached he heard the usual cat calls and jeers, but that didn't bother him. He just kept walking.

**JOHN**

It was a long walk to school; whoever designed it really should have put the boarding house closer, either that or he just wasn't used to it. The ground look like someone had dusted it with icing sugar, the autumn air was cool and calm. John liked autumn, the golden leaves, the crab apples, conkers, frosty mornings. His farther had thought it was stupid, enjoying nature and the changing of the seasons, it was not as important as the things he had enjoyed. Helping people, fighting for what he believed was right, staying loyal to the end. John missed him.

The hefty iron gates reared up ahead of him like a horse at its first rodeo. Even now, John's knees still shook at the sight of the fearsome building. Maybe Sherlock would give him a tour. There were a lot of 'maybe's with Sherlock.

First class was geography, not exactly his favorite subject. He was hoping to catch a glimpse of the high and cheekbones and blue eyes of his friend, but Sherlock wasn't there.

"Hi" John whipped round. The girl sat at the desk behind him smiled widely. "I haven't seen you here before. I'm Molly, by the way," she blushed "Molly Hooper. I've never seen you before, are you new? well, obviously. I'm sorry, am I talking too much? Everyone says I talk too much." Molly Hooper was a short girl with mousy brown hair parted in the center. Two dark green stones were set in her earrings, complimenting her dark eyes, but apart from that, he uniform was immaculate. Her dark red sweatshirt crease free over her pristine shirt. She had sorted out her tie.

"No, it's, umm fine. I'm John. I, um, got here yesterday."

"Do you board?"

"Umm, yes"

"You say 'umm' a lot," she smiled again nervously

"I guess I do, listen, I only got my timetable today and, well," it was John's turn to blush "I don't know where Ms. Higgs' classroom is."

"Oh, I'll show you! Come on," she sprung up as the bell rang. Grabbing his bag, John followed, rushing to keep up. John was slightly put out not to find Sherlock in PE either, he was hoping to have someone else in the gym who did t want to violently throw dodge balls at their classmates. The uniform didn't make it any more enjoyable, and itchy burgundy polo and grey shorts. Fun.

SHERLOCK  
It wasn't the first time. Sherlock had skived off lessons a lot in the past, mainly PE. He didn't see the point. He could be reading, researching, improving his mind. When was he going to need to know how to throw a ball? Truanting. Just another reason his parents where disappointed. Just another reason for suspension.

The grass was damp, the wall covered in moss, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that no one found him. They'd call his parents, for sure. He sat down. Only half an hour to wait until lunch, maybe then he could go and find John, maybe he would want to talk to him. A lot of 'maybe's.

He usually ate lunch in old science classrooms, where else was he supposed to go? The canteen was a no-go and they had kicked him out of the library years ago, apparently you weren't supposed to criticize the books out loud and rip out the incorrect pages. Sometimes he would be joined by Molly Hooper, her 'friends' seemed very selective about when she could sit with them.

There was an old microscope at the back of the room. The lens scratched and the slides dirty, but it worked. It was a lot more interesting than conversation. He wandered if John boarded or not. Sherlock sighed. He wished he could board; his parents couldn't dictate everything he did, Mycroft would leave him alone. Sherlock didn't often get jealous, but as sat there on the damp grass, he thought about how much he wished he wasn't a Holmes.


	3. CK - Chapter 3

Chapter 3

JOHN  
"Hey, um, Molly?"  
"What is it?" her hazel eyes lit up with renewed interest.  
"I was, urm, looking for Sherlock Holmes, do you know him?"  
"Oh, yeah. Everyone knows him. The freak with the scarf."  
"He's not a freak." the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. Molly looked shocked.  
"Know him well do you? You seem a bit... defensive..." John shook his head, embarrassed.  
"No, I met him yesterday."

The old science block was a basement, it was were the theory lessons where held, no practical work or experiments after someone was almost killed when carbon monoxide gas couldn't escape because of the lack of windows. John didn't like it much, it was eerie and he felt like they shouldn't be allowed. What sort of person ate lunch down here?  
"This way," Molly was almost pulling him along. At last they reached the end and she pushed open the final door, "in there. He's always in there."  
"Aren't you coming?"  
"Oh, no, I have um, English essay..." she was backing away from him down the corridor. "Bye, John."

Sherlock didn't look up when John poked his head through the door. He stood there for almost a minuet before he spoke  
"Um, hi..."  
"Afternoon" Awkward silence  
"I, uh, didn't see u earlier," silence. "In PE?"  
"How very observant of you"  
"So you were skipping class?!"  
"Some people might say that."  
"And what would you say?"  
"That I was selectively using my time productively to improve my mind rather than following an enforced waste if an hour purely to further my sporting ability."  
"Right." pulling up a stool, John took this time to look around the room. It was clearly a dissuaded classroom. Peeling patches on the white washed walls were covered up, badly, by posters and essays that were probably more than two years old, entitled 'why is science important'. 'That must have been am fascinating lesson', John smirked to himself.

SHERLOCK  
"What are you doing anyway?" Sherlock sighed. "I mean, what are you looking at?"  
"Skin cells."  
"Why?"  
"You do ask a lot of questions, don't you!"  
"well, I'm, interested." Sherlock looked up sharply, he slowly turned his head to face the other boy, who blushed and looked down awkwardly.  
"Interested? In me?" he nodded, nervously looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "No one is interested in me."  
"Molly Hooper?" John muttered.  
"What?" his nose wrinkled in confusion.  
"Nothing."  
Removing the slide, Sherlock lifted his head and stared at John, he loved studying people, learning about then and how they think; he didn't enjoy talking to people. But John was different.  
"Ok, you have more questions?"  
"Yes. Why don't they like you?" he didn't need to specify who.  
"Dimmock and co. are unnerved by the fact that I am more intelligent than them. Next?"  
"Have you always gone here?"  
"To St. Benedict's? No. I was at Eton."  
"Eton?!"  
"And Harrow."  
"And Harrow?! Why did you come here, what happened?"  
"Well they didn't want me there."  
"Why?" Sherlock didn't reply. A shrill bell sounded over their heads. Saved by the bell.  
"I only have one more question," John was almost running to keep up with his long strides.  
"What would that be?"  
"Do you board?"  
"No, unfortunately. My parents wanted to, keep and eye on me."  
Their footsteps echoed along the abandoned corridor.  
"Do you have a phone?"  
"I thought you only had one question."  
Sherlock's mind had gone into overdrive, something that didn't often happen inside these walls. 'Do you have a phone?' What on earth did that mean?

A pause.  
"Yes." increasing the pace, he turned up the stairs and strode towards the door to room twenty two, history.

At four o'clock, when the bell signalled the end of the day, Sherlock almost ran home. He pushed open the olive door and stomped upstairs, barely reaching his room before he pulled out his phone.  
"Ow, Sherlock, you stood on my foot!" pushing past Mycroft he slammed the door to his bedroom and sat down on the bed. The crumpled piece of paper still felt warm; the prospect of adding a fourth number to his address book filled him with excitement.  
Suddenly, he felt the paper leave his hand.  
"Mycroft! Get out of my room!"  
"What's this?"  
"Nothing, Give it back," both brothers where standing up now, face to face, the same height, though Sherlock was two years younger.  
"If it's nothing, why do you care?" Mycroft smirked as his brother tried to snatch the paper. "A phone number? Who'd want to phone you?!"  
"No one, Mycroft give it back or I'll..."  
"Tell mummy? Maybe at the same time I could tell her about your whereabouts in 4th lesson today?"  
Sherlock stopped struggling and took a step backwards. He knew he was trapped now, he sighed.  
"What do you want? And make it quick."  
"I want to know whose number this is."  
"For god's sake Mycroft why are you so interfering!"  
"Just tell me."  
Silence. The tension and rivalry in the air was tangible.  
"A friend."  
"You don't have friends."  
"I know. I've just got one." Mycroft continued to stare questioningly at him.  
"Good luck with that." and without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.

JOHN  
'They really could have made more of an effort' John thought to himself as he trudged slowly over towards the boarding houses. Dark red brick, modern glass windows, black front door. A few weeds littered the 'flower beds' and a thin stretch of ivy climbed one corner; a cat burglar, itching his way closer to the window. That was it. Home, sweet home.

He climbed the stairs quickly to avoid the attention of his fellow boarders and locked his bedroom door behind him. After ascertaining he was alone and all he could here was silence, John plunged a hand into the depths of his bag. His fingers struggled to free themselves from becoming wedged between two books, flaking spines and fragile pages like the autumn leaves that broke so easily underfoot that morning. Cold metal of the keys to the dorm, the corner of a plastic Tupperware that had held his lunch, the broken nib of a 2b pencil all presented themselves in turn. At last his knuckle brushed against it, a crumpled piece of paper.

Quickly, fingers fumbling, John took out his phone and found the contacts page. Typing the number was nerve racking enough, but when he came to actually writing a message... He didn't even know why he was worried! 'Stop, John, just stop' he told himself. 'It's not like you're in love with the guy! He gave you the number, just write. It's not that hard.' Taking a deep breath, he wrote "hello. Did you get my number ok? - JW" and pressed send.

About a minute later, his phone vibrated on the itchy blankets. John scrambled across the room, which didn't take long due to its size, and snatched it up. "Yes. How's your evening going? - SH". Flipping the keyboard up, he began to type again. Who would have thought that a quiet boy just moved from east Africa would make a friend within two days.


	4. CK - Chapter 4

Chapter 4

SHERLOCK  
Wednesday mornings, didn't they just bring joy to your heart? The prospect of a whole school assembly followed by double history was just too much fun for him to bear! Sarcasm, some said it was the lowest form of wit, but they were probably being sarcastic. Cheek, they had called it, talking back. Yet another reason they hadn't wanted him.

The assembly hall was a sea of bodies, crushed together in a grey mass. Currents and tides that buffeted you this way and that, crashing against the walls. Desperately trying to keep authority over this mess was the head, Mrs Blackwell. Eventually, when she had shouted herself horse and her height prevented her entering the crowed, Mr Morris stepped in.  
"Shut it!" he yelled over the rabble "take your seats."  
"Hi," Sherlock felt someone squeezing onto the bench alongside him, turning to look he saw the round face and oversized uniform of his only friend.  
"Hello," he was about to continue but Mrs Blackwell interrupted him. There was no stopping her now, she had started to drone. Welcoming them back, welcoming any be students and reminding them all that their ties were an essential part of uniform that distinguished their houses and therefore were mandatory and should be worn properly. After that, Sherlock didn't hear anything. He was whizzing through the long white corridors and lavishly furnished rooms of his mind palace, beautifully organised, pristine, no clutter, the only place where he felt at home.

JOHN  
The silence as they walked to double history was not as awkward as some he had endured, but all the same, he felt pressurised to break it.  
"You don't like history?"  
"Obviously."  
"Right," John paused as he noticed their footsteps were in perfect time. "Why?"  
"Is that not also obvious? The subject is completely unnecessary and because Mr Morris is an incapable imbecile who cannot teach me any better than reading the text book can." pause "and he's cheating on his wife."  
"How do you know that?!"  
Sherlock scoffed and kept walking, turning up the collar of his blazer.  
"Stop." John almost walked into the other boy's outstretched arm. "Let's go the other way."  
"Why?"  
"John, please? Let's just go around."  
"But this way is shorter... Sherlock what's..." but he was interrupted by a loud whoop from the end of the corridor.  
"Found yourself a little boy friend have you freak?" turning, Sherlock grabbed the leather strap of John's satchel and pulled him back around the corner.  
"Just keep walking."  
"Hey! Don't walk away when I'm talking to you!"  
"Keep walking John." but two more of them were waiting at the end of the hallway. They were trapped.  
"Wouldn't Mr Morris be annoyed if he found out neither of you had written that essay? It would be such a shame if you had nothing to hand in." a pair of large hands grabbed John from behind and pulled him back against the wall,  
"Get off me! Sherlock, what, leave me alone!" a small crowd had gathered now, people who would rather watch a fight break out than be on time for lessons, a sea of unfamiliar faces, and Molly Hooper. He caught her eye and felt relieved, Molly could do something. But she shrank back out of sight, back along the corridor.  
"What exactly do you want from me?" Sherlock's voice brought John back to his situation.  
"Certainly not the same thing as your little buddy over there wants from you!" an appreciative cheer made John's denial as fruitless as his struggle, no one heard him over the noise.

SHERLOCK  
"Yes, but what do you really want? Are you lonely, seeking appreciation? Are you abused at home? Hardly likely. Covering up? Hiding something? Or just jealous,"  
"JEALUS!? Why would I be jealous of you freak?"  
"Is it not obvious? It must be so boring in your tiny little mind." a sharp pain shot through Sherlock's back and his head throbbed. The loud slam of his body hitting the locker rang in his ears. All he heard was laughter and his own bearing heart.  
"Stop it!" John's voice sounded clearly over the crown this time. Sherlock recognised it even in the mess of voices. Silence fell as everyone turned to look at his friend.  
"Or you're gonna do what, homo?" his voice was quiet but dangerous. No one spoke; you could have heard a pin drop. A sudden noise broke the silence, the crunching sound of bone against bone, and David Dimmock was stumbling backwards, stubbed and clutching his face. John looked just as surprised as the bully, he stood motionless, then realising what he had done ran forward, pulling Sherlock to his feet. God that hurt, he thought, they should really consider putting padding on those locker doors. The two of them ran together back along the hall and up the stairs towards room 22, dreading the moment when they would have to enter and face Mr Morris, but glad to be anywhere but the corridor they'd left behind.  
"Thank you." the words felt strange, his tongue hardly new how to form them, "what you did... That was… Good." John looked up at him for the first time since they had been cornered.  
"That's ok, it was... its ok." he pause then stopped before he opened the classroom door, "Are you ok?"  
"I'm fine."  
"Seriously, Sherlock, are you hurt?"  
"Might ask you the same question." John's hand was bleeding a little and he seemed reluctant to put weight on his right leg.  
"I'm fine, it's just a bit of blood, I've seen worse," he wiped his knuckles on the edge of his shirt. "You?"  
"I suspect minor bruising but, well, I can deal with that. In used to it." the black eye was almost faded, but it still hurt to touch. John nodded and together they pushed open the door.

JOHN  
Their hands brushed as they both reached for the handle, John almost gasped but Sherlock didn't seem effected. But their short moment alone in the corridor was bot to last; Mr Morris looked like he was about to explode. He shouted himself hoarse for about 10 minutes before he bellowed at them to take a seat.

John winced as he sat down, the knuckles of his right hand still smarted. He didn't care. Staring around the room he caught Molly's eye again. She looked away quickly, ashamed to meet his gaze.

The roman public health system was not something that John would say captivated the imagination of the learner. Resorting to staring at Sherlock seemed the only escape. He lay, again, almost flat on the desk, pale fingers drumming out a steady rhythm on the desk. The white sheet of paper in front of him was covered in doodles, well, scribbled words and symbols, something that looked like a chemical equation.  
"Watson," John's head jerked up of his arm to find the whole class and Mr Morris staring directly at him. Oops. "Could you please read your answer about 'the extent to which the roman public health system benefited everyone' to the class?"

On the way to their next lesson, they stopped at the bathroom. As John was waiting outside, Molly ran up to him. Scowling, he looked a way, refusing to give the curtsey of eye contact.  
"John..." she was twisting a handkerchief in her fingers. "I understand why you're cross with me, but you know there was nothing I could do..."  
"That's exactly what you did do, nothing."  
"No one ever does! You know I'm no match for Dimmock!"  
"I did something." his voice quavered slightly but his hands, unlike hers, were perfectly steady. A rose red blossomed in her freckled cheeks, spreading gradually to her ears.  
"I know. I heard. It's... It's amazing, John, I..."  
"Not really. Self-defence." she raised her face for the first time since she had approached him.  
"You weren't just defending yourself," she paused, "I've seen the way you look at him." John opened his mouth in confusion  
"What?! No, Molly, it's not like that! I've known him for three days! I just, well, I had to do something, didn't I?!" but she just smiled knowingly, walking slowly away from him.  
"Of course you did."

SHERLOCK  
An engine, racing out of control; a rocket, trapped on the launch pad; a wiring clockwork masterpiece with no hands of time to turn. Bored, bored, bored, bored! Good god, what were they running here, a school or a prison? Wasn't learning supposed to stimulate the mind!? He supposed it did for the more placid ones, John, Molly. Poking his curly head out of the door, he peered up and down the corridor. Even at lunchtime, not an incident in sight. No theft, no mystery, no nothing. Hateful.

"Ummm, Sherlock, what are you doing?"  
"Bored." he muttered in reply.  
"Sorry?"  
"Bored!" shouting this time. "Nothing, John, nothing. Peace and quiet." he still looked puzzled  
"What would you prefer?"  
"Something, anything! A case, a puzzle, something to do." John laughed  
"What? Like a murder mystery?"  
"Murder would work as well as anything." He raised one eye brow in consideration, "More interesting than theft anyway." John's mouth fell open in disbelief.

The sound of the bell at the end of the day was music to his ears. Sherlock sprang from his desk and, pulling his scarf around his neck, walked quickly towards the door.  
"Sherlock!" he turned to see John trotting after him, weaving between the desks, his satchel swinging behind him. They had only walked a few steps together when a figure stepped out from behind a row of lockers. Sherlock let out a groan. Mycroft.  
"So this is your" the older boy coughed mockingly "friend."  
"Yes." John's head was flicking between each of faces, as though he was watching a tennis match, mouth slightly parted. "Sherlock, what..."  
"Brother," Sherlock sighed exasperatedly.  
"This is your... brother?!" Mycroft raised one eye brow questioningly.  
"What's so supposing about that?"  
"Nothing! Nothing, no, I just, I, uh, never mind." Mycroft looked Sherlock straight in the eye and gave him the 'ugh, ordinary people' look.  
"Don't give me that look Mycroft." He's not like the others.  
"Oh, in sorry, was I doing a look?"  
"You know what look you were doing." it was hard to keep the anger out of his voice. John still looked as though he was trying to understand the first few sentences,  
"Sorry, what look?" he chimed in.  
"Nothing." Sherlock tried to brush it off, "look Mycroft, unless you have anything of value to say, I would prefer if you left us alone." Mycroft gave him one last disapproving look, then smirked and turned away.

After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock finally broke the ice. They had reached a fork on the path.  
"I go this way." he tried to sound as though it was more than an I've breaker and a simple fact, but he didn't really do a good job. He guessed he hadn't had a lot of practice.  
"Oh, right, well umm, bye." John seemed as reluctant as he did to take their separate ways. They paused for a few long seconds, then turned together and walked down the opposite dirt paths.


	5. CK - Chapter 5

Chapter 5

JOHN  
John's grey eyes peeled open, sleep still clogging his eyelashes. He groaned quietly and rolled over, pulling the paisley blankets tighter around him. A sliver of silver light streamed through the slits in the blind and poked harshly at his eyes. The only other source of light a soft, yellow glow from the distorted glass in the locked door; which cast strange, unearthly shadows around the room. Long spindly fingers stretching out towards him. He shivered, curling his knees up tight to his chest to preserve as much heat as possible, wishing he'd brought thicker pyjamas. Northern winds whistled in the tops of the beech trees, rustling the leaves, bending the branches and making a haunting yet beautiful sound. The sound of a creaking floorboard, then silence.

About a minuet later, there it was again. Creaking. John sat up slightly, listening intently. A shadow passed by the door, the shadow of a man. Oh god. He felt his heart rate elevate and his breathing becoming heavy. The shadow paused and John saw the outline of, of... Crap, crap. Ok, stay calm. The man outside the window still hadn't moved. Starting to panic, John brought one hand up to his mouth to stop himself crying out. When the shadow finally moved, his hand scrabbled on the bedside table, reaching for his phone. As fast as possible, fingers fumbling, he opened up his address book, keeping the screen well concealed under the thin covers in case the shadow returned. His fingers left sweaty deposits on the screen, the adrenaline was kicking in. 3 names; Mum, Harry, and Sherlock Holmes. He didn't even hesitate.

SHERLOCK  
A loud, shrill ringing sounded and Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He sat up so fast, he cricked his neck. Rubbing it, he reached in the draw next to his bed and pulled out his phone. The vibration alone would probably wake the whole house of he didn't silence it. Smothering it in the folds of his pyjamas, he squinted at the brightly lit screen. John. Why the hell was John calling him in the middle of the night?! Pulling the duvet up over his head, Sherlock pressed answer and held the device to his ear.  
"Hello?" he spoke as quietly as he could, Mycroft had extremely acute hearing.  
"Sherlock, there's someone here." John's voice was horse and low pitched, barely even a voice at all, his breathing louder than the actual words.  
"What? Why are you calling me, its 3 o'clock in the morning?!"  
"Shhh, Sherlock, he'll hear you."  
"John, what is going on?" his heart was beating faster now, irregular; he hated irregularity.  
"There's a man. I don't know who, I saw a shadow, I... I think he might have a gun, I don't know." His friends voice was getting louder now, he was starting to panic.  
"John, calm down. Why did you phone _me_, what do you want me to do?"  
"I don't know! I just, what do I do? He could be dangerous, but, I mean, he's obviously here for some thing!"  
"Can you still see him?" Sherlock knew he had to keep John talking, out of this man's way, but he couldn't help being a tiny bit excited. At last, this is what he had been waiting for. All he could hear was breathing down the phone.  
"Yes," the voice was barely a whisper now, almost inaudible. "Sherlock he's outside the door."  
"Has he got a gun?"  
"Shhhhh." exactly 31 seconds passed before "he's gone. But he had a gun Sherlock, I know he did. What if he took something? Someone?!"  
"Calm down! Is there a number, of a matron, a... something? Who's in charge?"  
"I don't know Sherlock, I only just got here!" ugh, Sherlock let out a noise of contempt.  
"And they didn't tell you why to do in an emergency?!"  
"No!" Jesus, Sherlock's brain was working so furiously he was sure it could be heard from downstairs.  
"John, you're going to have to find someone, the ward of whoever, this, man, he might have, you know..."  
"Taken something?"  
"I was thinking more along the lines of someone." much more interesting.  
"Oh god. Right. Ok, I'm going now." listening hard, Sherlock could just about hear John's muffled footsteps as he crept along the corridor. "Ok, Sherlock I'm going to have to hang up now, I can see the door of her office."  
"You're sure you're ok?" despite the ungodly hour, Sherlock wasn't going to just leave his friend. His only friend.  
"Yeah, in fine. I just hope everyone else is..."  
"They will be. Just, be careful." a long pause.  
"Yeah. Yeah, I will. Bye."  
"Bye, John." pressing disconnect, Sherlock rolled back over, but didn't close his eyes, thinking.

JOHN  
Matron McKenzie was a stout woman, with a kind face and large arms; but she still didn't take kindly to being woken in the early morning.  
"Tell me what you want or so help me..." she advanced on him, almost spitting the words.  
"There was someone here. A man, I think. He had a gun." John's body was steady but he still felt a little shaken inside. She didn't say anything, roughly pushing past him, Matron stormed down the hallway, pulling her dressing gown tight around her.  
"Are you sure?" her voice was urgent.  
"100%, I saw the shadow." she was almost jogging now, John was having a hard time keeping up. One by one, they opened every door along the hallway, and with each one they became more and more nervous that the next room would bee empty. But they weren't. All the other boys were still there, sound asleep.  
"Alight dear, you get back to bed; I'll sort the rest out." John didn't appreciate the patronising tone, he knew she didn't really believe him.

A lot of people would have found it hard to sleep knowing that a man with a gun was probably less than a mile away, but John slept soundly. He knew the experience well from living in east Africa, he supposed he was desensitised to it.

As soon as he saw Sherlock's long silhouette through the hefty iron gates, he started jogging, his hair and blazer whipping behind him. "Sherlock," he called over the crowd. His curly haired friend pushed through the sea of people and reached him. His firm, pale hands gripped John's shoulders as he bent his head down to he shooter boy's eye level.  
"Are you alright?" blue eyes urgently close to his, John could feel his breath on his face. "I'm fine."  
"No, really. Are you ok?"  
"Yes, Sherlock, I'm ok. Genuinely." satisfied, he pulled away, the dappled sunlight making patterns on his cheekbones through the tall trees.  
"Ok then. That's, good," turning, he started to stride up the gravel path along either the rest of the school. Frustrated, John hurried to catch up with him.

SHERLOCK  
"Sherlock!" wait!" John was swerving through the other students after him, when Sherlock ignored him he stretched out a hand and grabbed his arm. They both stopped to look at each other. John let go hastily. "I... You always walk off without me." Sherlock turned again, but the two of them walked together this time. His palms felt suddenly hot and his fingers shook a little. It was a new and unhelpful emotion and he don't like it.  
"Always is a bit of general word for les than a weeks acquaintance." John didn't respond to this, however. Instead he asked "why was he there?"  
"What?"  
"The man, with the gun. He didn't take anything, no one was hurt, in fact, they were all sound asleep." Sherlock stopped walking suddenly; John almost walked into him. "Sherlock, what the..."  
"Asleep?!" he turned and stared at his friend, "asleep? You're quite sure they were ALL asleep?!"  
"Yes! Look, Sherlock what is it?" excitement flooded through his veins, coursed through every artery, right down to the capillaries in his finger tips. At last, a case! Something to do, something to solve. His mind started to whir as he opened up the doors and danced about in the hallway of his 'palace'.  
"Sherlock? That's the bell..."  
"What? Oh, sorry, I was just..." he shook his head slightly, trying to focus on what was going on around him. "Yes, let's, go."

At lunchtime, they headed for the library, which confused John a great deal.  
"Sherlock, why aren't we in the science block?" when he didn't receive an answer, he fell silent. After about 5 minuets of following him round the shelves, John spoke again. "Sherlock, what are we looking for?"  
"Shhh." John stared t him, irritated.  
"She isn't going to hear us from here!" he jerked his head at the librarian.  
"Thinking."  
"You could at least tell me what we're looking for; I can help." a rush of euphoria pulsed through Sherlock's head.  
"Never mind, found it!"

JOHN  
A small, thick, leather bound book covered in such think dust it looked a though it had never been touched lay in Sherlock's hands. John was puzzled, what on earth did they need form this old book? Pulling up a chair, he watched, almost hypnotised, as Sherlock feverishly flocked through the yellowed leaves. "Must be here, must be." he muttered frantically. John didn't even bother asking what."Ketamine, tranquilizer. Now all we need is how..."  
"Sherlock! Will you just..." John almost shouted and blushed as the librarian looked at him angrily. "Explain? Please?" Sherlock lifted his head and rolled his eyes."We know that man was there for a reason, he clearly meant business because he brought a gun; and yet he took nothing, disturbed nothing, why? No one saw him except you, he would have got away with it of you hadn't woken up, so he clearly didn't intend to take anything, if he did he'd have it! Casing the joint." he held up the book, 'the psychology of the criminal mind', "It's what they call it when a criminal comes to scene of the crime before they actually commit the act, a dress rehearsal if you like, he wanted to see what was happening. I think he knew you were awake, he saw you, which means his current method of drugging clearly isn't working, he's going to try something stronger next time."  
"Sorry," John's head was buzzing from all the information, "He drugged all the other boys?!"  
"Yes, obviously, I shall need a full list of what you ate and drank lay night. He drugged the boys, came to see if it had worked and presumably to check everything else he had set up. He's going to come back."  
Stunned silence followed, then John broke it,  
"That was, amazing." Sherlock's ace twitched in consideration,  
"Respectable, it was a transparent deduction."  
"Transparent?!" John sighed, 'I give up' he thought, 'he's a lost cause'.


	6. CK - Chapter 6

Chapter 6

SHERLOCK  
All through the day, Sherlock could not concentrate on school. Not that he ever did, but today he found it even harder than usual. Why was everyone so determined to bore him when someone else was being so delightfully interesting.

It was the middle of English when John poked him in the small of the back. Annoyed, Sherlock turned round, he was trying to think!  
"Here," John muttered, "you said you wanted a list."  
"Boys, I hope you have finished your paragraphs, you seem to have a lot to discus." John's ears went red, Sherlock just sighed and turned back around, studying the list carefully.

Toast  
Water - school tap  
Sandwich  
3 apples

••••••••••

"Ok, that is a lot of apples..." Sherlock said after the lesson, poking John in the back.  
"What? Oh, we'll I wasn't that hungry."  
"So you didn't eat dinner at the boarding house?" Sherlock felt that smug, victorious emotion of knowing for sure.  
"Well, no..."  
"And you didn't drink any water from the boarding house?"  
"No..."  
"Now we know." John still had a puzzled expression.  
"We know... What?" Sherlock gave a violent exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes.  
"The drug?! Ketamine?!"  
"Oh, yeah!" god, was he really that ignorant? John seemed to read his thoughts on his face and looked irritated. "I just forgot ok?" he said defensively. Sherlock shrugged.

Throughout second lesson, Sherlock was thinking about the case. The case that technically hadn't happened. It was obvious that he would try again, and by 'he', he meant they. He wandered f they should warn someone... Probably wasn't time.

JOHN  
After Latin, John had no idea why they were learning the dead language, it was by far his worst subject, he went straight up to Sherlock and tapped him on the shoulder. He span round so fast, John took a step backwards.  
"Sherlock, I was thinking, do you want to take a look at the boarding house this lunch time?" there is nothing more terrifying than asking someone to do something with you, which he knew all to well, he had been on many unsuccessful dates in Africa... But he wasn't even asking Sherlock on a date; sometimes he wandered what was wrong with him, he got so nervous whenever they where less than four feet apart.  
"Good idea John, that's not something I often say. I doubt he left any prints but it's worth checking. You know, you're not as stupid as I thought." he smiled captivatingly and set of down the hall. John just stood there, stunned.  
"Sure. That's what I meant." he muttered, jogging after the fast disappearing curly head.

His fingers fumbled on the cold metal. He could sense Sherlock behind him getting impatient. The door had two locks, an old rusted one with a heavy brass key and a new silver Yale lock. When at last John had opened the door, Sherlock almost pushed passed him on eagerness. He was smiling to himself as he pulled a small magnifying glass out of his inside blazer pocket and began searching.  
"What exactly are we looking for?"  
"Anything. Anything interesting that isn't normally here." you.  
"So, umm, footprints? Fingerprints?"  
"Possibly, although I don't think he's stupid enough to leave them." John realised he wasn't really going to be doing a lot so resigned himself to sitting against the wall to eat his lunch. After about ten minuets, Sherlock finally spoke,  
"Aha!"  
"What?!"  
"Look at this John, fibres."  
"What?" John came over to the patch of skirting board Sherlock was looking at and crouched beside him. "Ok, what's so great about that?" in Sherlock's eyes, this was deserving of a disapproving look, although it seemed an unreasonable response.  
"These are clearly carpet fibres, but look, they don't match the carpet in the hall and the school building has wood flooring. It could be nothing, but we need to find out were they're from."  
"Ok, how do we do that?" he smirked knowingly.  
"Molly Hooper."

SHERLOCK  
He knew where to find her, if she wasn't eating lunch with him in the science lab, she would be in the hall with her 'friends'. Sherlock strode in, scanned the tables for a few short seconds, then spotted her and walked trigger over.  
"Molly." she jumped and spilt the remainder of her drink over her crumpled skirt.  
"What the hell?!" she looked furious. "Sherlock, you scared me!" her 'friends' looked confused and most of them were giggling uncontrollably.  
"I need your help."  
"Yeah, well I'm kinda busy right now!" she dabbed desperately at her skirt with a napkin, cursing under her breath.  
"Its important." he turned to John for back up. More giggling from the other girls and call of 'what's he any with you Molly?' and 'Leave it, he's just a freak' and 'oh my god they're so weird'. Hours later, or so it felt (he was pretty bored of waiting) Molly got up form the table. Her girlfriends groaned and called after her, 'Molly, don't go with him!'  
"Five minutes guys, I'll be right back." once they were out of earshot, she continued, "What is it Sherlock, It'd better be good because they hate me now."  
"Don't think they were your biggest fans to begin with really." offended, or do it seemed, she half turned.  
"I could just go back you know," he smiled knowingly,  
"but you won't."

MOLLY  
She had loved him since the day we first set foot in St. Benedict's. Tall, lanky, his high cheekbones and brilliant blue eyes had caught her attention almost immediately. Sure, he was a bit of an asshole, but no ones perfect. She felt like no in else understood her like he did. It had been uncomfortable at first, but when they started eating together they had, sort of clicked.  
She still hadn't done anything about it.

He was right of course, he always was. She wasn't going to pass up this rare opportunity just to sit with her friends. Friends who couldn't accept her.

The classroom looked eerie in the darkness before se flocked the switch. Sherlock made straight for the microscope.  
"Umm," said Molly, standing uneasily by the door, "What exactly did you want me to do?" John spoke directly after her,  
"What was it you wanted me to do Sherlock?" silence.  
"Oh yes; Molly, I need you to get those pH testers, and some microscope slides. We have to identify these carpet fibres."  
"Why?"  
"Not important. John, I need you to the library."  
"Why?!" he sounded indignant.  
"I need a book, obviously. Science section, second row, third shelf, 'the new forensics: microscopic deduction.'"  
"Seriously?"  
"Seriously." while Molly struggled under the weight of full microbe- identifying entourage, John left the room, looking annoyed.  
"So," she said nervously, "what exactly are you hoping to find?"  
"That these are not from the school grounds, in which case we go there and see If there's anything interesting." a few minuets later, Sherlock's phone buzzed on the desk. She tried to peep over and read the message, John, she assumed.

"Sherlock,"  
"Mmm?"  
"Um, do you, er, want to maybe, I don't know, have a drink?"  
"What? If you're going to the tap can you fill my bottle up too?"  
"No, I mean, with me." he looked up, studying her face. There is nothing more terrifying than asking someone out, that is apart from asking out Sherlock Holmes.  
"I'm still confused as to why."  
"For fun?"  
"Oh." they sat in restless hush for a while, Molly had no idea how long.  
"So, you're saying no?" she tried to keep her voice level and calm.  
"I didn't say that." she was right next to him now, her mind racing but her heart still beating faster.  
"Before you make up your mind..." she was going to think of a real reason, she really was. But her face was so close she could hear feel his steady breaths on her cheek. Her pallid, slightly chapped lips lightly brushed his. She closed her eyes; it was like nothing she'd ever done before, so adventurous, so bold. Months later, or so it felt, she opened her eyes. He was staring right at her, his deep blue eyes gazing down into her very soul. He'd had them open the whole time.  
"What was that?" he sounded genuinely confused as well as aghast. She felt mortified, she'd been so stupid, like that was going to do anything.  
"Umm, an experiment."

JOHN  
Having finally given up on finding the exact book Sherlock wanted, he had settled on one by the same author. He was still a little confused as to what exactly they we're looking for, but he wasn't going to admit it. He pushed open the door with his left hand, his right struggling to keep hold of the leather bound book.

"Sherlock, they didn't have..." but his mouth fell open as he entered the room and he was rendered incapable of speech for a good half a minuet. This was a scene he could never have imagined; Molly leaning over the ancient desk, her pink face inches from his friend's, Sherlock's eyes focused in her face, his head slightly cocked to one side as though puzzled.  
"What, what us going on here?" Sherlock paused before answering, "An experiment, apparently." Molly's cheeks and the base of her neck where as deep red as her sleeveless jumper. Straightening up, she tore out of the room, pushing John aside as she did so. He heard her hiccup as she sprinted away down the corridor. She'd left her bag on the desk.  
"What did you say to her?"  
"Me?!" he looked appalled at the injustice of these words. "I didn't do anything." John's jaw dropped once more as the final penny clunker into place. He felt angry, betrayed for some reason. He couldn't work out exactly who by.


	7. CK - Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

JOHN  
They didn't speak for the rest of the lunch hour. He didn't even ask if Sherlock had found anything. But he wouldn't have that long to wait.

After school, he waited outside the door for Sherlock, who was 'having a word' Mrs Higgs, a very audible word. Despite their 'little chat' he seemed almost ecstatic when he opened the door, beaming.  
"What she say?"  
"Doesn't matter, look I've figured out where these carpet fibered are from."  
"How the hell did you do that?!" Sherlock have him the 'isn't it obvious' look, raising one eyebrow and rolling his eyes (how could someone do both at once?!)  
"Well first we consider the obvious, they're blue, the school carpets are all beige and there aren't that many. So it's from off grounds. That points towards someone who either lives at home or wasn't meant to be there, my money's on the latter. There are hints of alkaline on them, so washed recently with a strong cleaner. They're well-trodden, possibly a large family, or more likely..." he gestured for John to finish the sentence, looking expectant.  
"Ummm, public place?"  
"Exactly. Somewhere he'd go to get information, possibly spy on the intended target. Somewhere with blue carpet that is regularly cleaned, somewhere he could hide in a crowd."  
"Are you expecting me to know? I literally moved here two weeks ago Sherlock."  
"Of course I'm not expecting you to know, I think better out loud. Come on."  
"Where are we going?"  
"Library." he shouted from halfway down the stairs.

SHERLOCK  
A small, stone building with heavy sash windows but a recently installed glass door. A lot of the town was like that. Sherlock hated it. What he wanted was to be at the centre of the action, in the middle of a busy city. People bustling around every day, going about their ordinary lives. But that was where the real cases were, criminal underworld. They didn't have that in Mutton on the Wold

He slid the glass door open and crouched down on the floor. John nearly walked into him.  
"Sherlock! You can't sit in the middle of the doorway!"  
"And you can't shout in a library," he smiled as the librarian gave them a dirty look. He was right though, of course, the carpet was deep ocean blue. Leaning down further, he sniffed at it. Yep, recently cleaned.  
"I was right John," he stood up suddenly; John looked very uncomfortable standing behind him on the welcome mat, standing awkwardly, twisting his fingers. It reminded him of Molly  
"Even about the alkaline?"  
"Let's go and ask..."  
"What? We can't just..." but Sherlock ignored him and walked over to the modern glass desk.  
"Excuse me," she looked up irritably, annoyed that he had interrupted the essential task of stamping the date into a small pile of children's books. "When did you last clean your carpet?" her mouth formed a perfect O as she slowly turned her head I stare at him; reminding him of Molly. Molly, why did she have to keep hovering at the back of his mind when he was trying to think?! He smiled at her; he thought that was what people did. John's face was in his hands, but he was laughing.  
"Sherlock, you can't just ask people..." she was still glaring as though he had interrupted something lifesaving.  
"it's very important..." he was losing patience.  
"On Wednesday, I think... Why is it so..."  
"So I was right!" he strode away victorious, now they just had to find out why on earth the man with the gun had come to Mutton on the Wold Library. Sherlock hoped he had enjoyed his visit more than he was.  
"Sherlock!" John was still chuckling as he caught up, "You can't just walk away from her and leave me there!"  
"Right, ok..." where would he go first as a criminal planning kidnap or theft... Non-fiction, computer. "Ok, you check the non-fiction, I'll have a look on the computer."  
"Umm, what am I looking for?"  
"Anything a criminal would look at, use your imagination." as he wanders over to the computer, he heard John muttering to himself,  
"right, criminal, ok..."

JOHN  
Sherlock had sat down at the computer and assumed his 'thinking position', lent back in the chair, fingertips together. Sighing, John turned his attention to the science shelves. His head was still buzzing from earlier, he couldn't stop thinking about Molly and what she'd done, whatever he thought about it, he had to admit it was brave; he doubted he could ever do that, just make a move, experiment. In Africa he had been going out with a girl called Katherine, she had said that too; that he was incapable. She'd got bored. It only lasted a month. Wandering what Sherlock made of the whole affair, he began pulling books of the shelves at random, he still wasn't really sure what he was looking for.

"Are you even going to use that?" the nasal voice of the librarian cut through the stillness and lull of the room. Sherlock was still sitting by the computer, one leg resting, the other off the floor, chin resting atop his fingertips, gently spinning the chair slightly left then right. "Excuse me?"  
"Sherlock," John poked him on the shoulder and jerked his head towards the irritable woman. Exasperated and a little embarrassed, he turned back to his search.  
"I was in my mind palace!" Sherlock moaned, "this is important you know!" coughing loudly, John jerked his head again.  
"Are you even going to log on? Do you even have a log on?"  
"Ah, a log in. I see. Do you by any chance have all the registered log in details on a server somewhere?"  
"No! And if I did I wouldn't go handing out passwords to some random kid!"  
"I'm 16." the atmosphere had changed from one of peaceful quite to a frosty, prickly iron curtain or noiselessness.

SHERLOCK  
Sherlock turned back the screen and lent forward on the desk. Password, password.  
"Sherlock, you can't possibly guess his password, there's nothing to go on."  
"I wouldn't say that..." but it was a lot more difficult than he had anticipated. John was right, a bit, there wasn't much to go on. The psychology, the drug. But he wasn't stupid; no one clever enough to sneak ketamine into a school boarding house was going to use an obvious when he said 'he', he meant they, Sherlock strongly suspected there was more than one person involved on this, an organisation maybe.

He lost sense of time when he was thinking, it seemed like they had been in the library for only a few seconds when John yawned loudly,  
"Sherlock, we've been here for almost 40 minutes, there aren't any books I can see that..." he gestured at the shelve desperately "can we just go now? You can think anywhere else."  
Springing up, Sherlock pulled his scarf around his neck and walked towards the door,  
"Come on then," he called behind him.

He hated the part of the day when he had to walk home. It was cold and he didn't much look forward to reaching his destination.  
He never called it 'home', he called it 'my house', although really it didn't belong to him of course. 'Home' is somewhere you feel like you belong, where everyone really cares about you. No, no. 7 Greenwich rd. wasn't 'home' to him.

Upstairs, he slumped into his desk chair and span slowly, thinking. A buzzing from the oak bed side table, his phone vibrated so violently it flopped off the side and down the crevasse between the solid surface and the mound of messy bedding that toppled in disarray over the side of the bed. What could John have to say now, twenty minutes free they had parted at the library? Straightening up, he bounded across the room. He snatched up his phone, pulse elevated.

What are you going to about Molly?  
JW


	8. CK - Chapter 8

Chapter 8

JOHN  
He pressed send and lent back against the tall ebony bad head, waiting. The sound of accessing notes, an annoying ring tone, he should change it.

Do I have to do something?  
SH

'What?!' he murmured, rolling his eyes, feverishly typing

YES!  
JW

Why?  
SH

He had to think about that, well, because! A social convention, Sherlock couldn't just leave her hanging, it was just, cruel. He typed it quickly

So what do you want me to do exactly?  
SH

I don't know, talk to her?!  
JW

And say what?  
SH

John groaned exasperatedly,

Well, do you want to stay friends, or, I don't know, more than friends...  
JW

What do you mean, more than friends?  
SH

Oh god.

You know, do you want her to be your girlfriend?  
J

Sherlock was a long time replying, John had eaten dinner by the time his phone made that irritating noise again

Not really my area  
S

He stared, open mouthed at the message for several minutes, confused, shocked, worried.

So tell her that  
J

He held his breath, waiting.

I will.  
S

Taking that to mean they were finished with this conversation, he locked the phone and pulled on his pyjamas. He brushed his teeth and clambered into the scratchy sheets. Changed his ringtone to short piano riff and went to turn the light out, when his phone lit up again, relating onto the pile of books, CDs and papers on his bed side table.

Goodnight  
S

smiling to himself, he replied

Night  
J

and turned out the light.

SHERLOCK  
Sherlock, however, didn't fall asleep as easily. His head was full to bursting; the password, when the man with the gun would try again. Molly. She was confusing, Molly. Mycroft had always called him asexual, and it was true that attachment and caring were a mystery to him, there was no advantage. But he wouldn't go do far as to say asexual... His parents worried of course, about Mycroft too, by Mycroft hadn't been excluded from two of the best public schools in Britain, so he was off the hook. He could do what he wanted, no one needed to keep an eye on the perfect eldest son. Digressing from his train of thought, he snapped back to the case. He was sure that the man would return, his aim clearly being kidnap, but there wasn't anything he could do, nothing to stop him. He just hoped John would be safe.

••••••••••••••

JOHN  
Flashing lights, red and blue, outside his window woke him at 8:04 on a bitter Friday morning. The screeching of sirens filled his ears. Blinking furiously, he scrambled up and, grabbing his dressing gown and a pair of discarded converse, ran to the door. He nearly fell over, his head was spinning. Trying to control his dizziness, he yanked it open. Heads poked out of every door way, all the way down the hall. Nervous, disconcerted, panicked. Whispering and mumbling and shouting in a haze of confusion. Matron McKenzie was almost running down the corridor, telling everyone to get back in their rooms and not to touch anything. Yells of 'what's happening?' 'what's going on?!' carried down the hall, as she brushed past, John joined the shouts.  
"There's been a break in. Please isn't panic, you're safe now, just go back to your bedrooms, school will probably be cancelled, don't worry," she sounded harried.  
"Who's missing?" a hush fell as John spoke. She took a deep, shuddering breath before replying,  
"Jamie Taverner."  
John had only met Jamie once, but he was nice, friendly. He had been the one that told him about curfew on his first day, he would have been screwed without him. Then the horror struck him; this could have been prevented.  
The first thing he did when he got back in his room was send a text to Sherlock,

You were right. He came back. Boy missing. School cancelled.  
J

Then he got dressed into jeans and an old jumper and waited. Despite what his friend seemed to think, John wasn't stupid. He knew they would want to talk to everyone, to him especially, because of what he had seen a few days ago. He didn't want to talk to them.  
A couple of times he tried to glance down the darkened hallway and see what was happening, he could hear them talking downstairs. The deep, calming voices of the police officers as they attempted to question an almost hysterical Matron McKenzie.

SHERLOCK  
"I'm going out," he called over his shoulder, pulling on his long coat and wrenching the front door open.  
"School's cancelled!" Mycroft yelled down the stairs, "Some kid got himself kidnapped."  
"I know, I'm just going out."  
"Good god you're not thinking of going over there?!" Sherlock ignored home and stepped outside, bracing himself against the cold.  
"Sherlock, where are you going? Mycroft said school was cancelled." his mother's voice. Oh my god, could they not leave him alone for one second! He slammed the door in their faces.

There was yellow and black tape all around the boarding house; it didn't look like they were letting anyone in. He was, indeed, stopped as he tried to cross into the building.  
"Sorry son, no one's going in or out." a young police woman with blonde hair stepped forward and blocked his path.  
"I need to."  
"I'm sorry, no one's allowed in."  
"I can help." she scoffed,  
"really?" did she really not understand, he sighed. He would have to prove it to her.  
"I know that the kidnapper was casing the joint here on Wednesday night, I know who he took and why and I know he visited Mutton on the wold library recently and used the computer. I could guess his password if I can see the ransom note." she frowned,  
"What ransom note?" he cocked his head questioningly and, realising The stupidity of what he was dealing with, groaned internally.  
"You haven't found it yet? Ugh, will you just let me through, I can find it."  
"There was no note!"  
"Of course there was a note!" they were almost nose to nose now, but there heated discussion was interrupted by a familiar voice carrying over them.  
"Sherlock!" John was running over to them. Smiling, Sherlock ducked under the police tape, despite the annoyance and disbelief of the officer, and walked over to him.  
"Alright?"  
"Fine, you?"  
"I'm not a kidnap witness."  
"in sorry kiddo," she had caught up with them. Exhaling heavily, he spun round to face her. "You're going to have to leave. You can't be here!"  
"So I'm not allowed to support my friend while he gives his eye witness account? My dads a lawyer and I'm pretty sure that's a right of a witness. And I'm 16"  
"wait," she was clearly bemused, looking a John "You're a witness?"  
"Umm, well, kind off..."  
"There was another break in. On Wednesday night." She stated dumbfounded at them both, one tanned hand reaching for the walkie-talkie at waist.  
"Sergeant Barnard, there's two boys here who say there was another break in on Wednesday night... Yeah... Yeah that's what they said, casing the joint... Apparently he had a gun... Yeah he is a bit, um... Arrogant Yeah... Ok, be right over." attaching the device back onto her belt, she inclined her head back to face them. "The Sergeant would like to talk to you. Both of you, this way."

"Did you just gain access to a crime scene by sassing up a police officer?!" Sherlock smirked, the right corner of his mouth curling upwards.  
"If you mean 'did I just get us access to a crime scene and a chance to talk to the senior officer by outsmarting a police officer' then yes." that started the butterflies in his stomach,  
"Sherlock I don't think I can give evidence..."  
"What are you talking about? Just tell him what happened on Wednesday and if we're lucky, e might let us look at the ransom note!" he was clearly struggling to keep the glee out of his voice.  
"That woman said there wasn't a ransom note..."  
"Of course there's a ransom note, they just haven't found it yet." but he was still uncomfortable. He hated taking to officials, police, ambulance, he wasn't sure he could face it since the incident. Then a new feeling, guilt swamped his other emotions. They had known about this, they had known and they'd done nothing, and now poor Jamie was shut up somewhere by a lunatic.  
"Sherlock, we could have stopped this."  
"What?"  
"We knew this was going to happen, we should have told someone."  
"Wouldn't have done anything."  
"Don't you care there's a boy kidnapped?!"  
"Caring won't help him." John couldn't believe someone could just divorce themselves from feelings like that.

Sergeant Barnard was an extremely tall man, at least 6ft 5, with a clean shaven face and a pristine suit. He looked as though he hardly ever actually visited the crime scene. His unforgiving dark eyes travelled over John's face and stopped, glaring at Sherlock.  
"You."  
"Yep." looking up from the patchy grass, John stared, flabbergasted at the two of them.  
"You, you know..."  
"do you seriously think I'm gonna let you mess about on another one of my investigations Mr Holmes?" he spoke in a harsh, clipped accent.  
"No, I'm here as support. Oh and I want to see the ransom note."  
"There is no note."  
"Oh, obviously there is! You're just not looking hard enough!" Barnard looked exceedingly put out, frowning down at them.  
"What about this break in Wednesday, tell me about it." it took John a few seconds to realise the sergeant was addressing him now  
"oh," he stammered. The sergeant offered him a chair ad he sank into it, Sherlock standing behind, hands clasped behind his back. John proceeded to tell the whole story of Wednesday night, leaving out the phone call. When he had finished, the sergeant nodded and called another man over on his walkie-talkie. The muttered quietly for a while, John could see his friend out of the corner of his eye, he was clearly straining to hear what they were saying.  
"Alright boys, thank you for telling us. You can go now." John stood up and, smiling politely, turned to walk away.  
"Sherlock? You coming?" he hadn't moved. "Sherlock?"  
"What about the note?" Sherlock called after the sergeant.  
"For the last time! There was no god damn note!"  
"Sir!" another man's voice, loud and articulate, "we found something sir, we think it's a ransom note!" the victorious smile on Sherlock's face was wider than John had ever seen before, you could almost see the 'I told you so' in his eyes. He pushed past the first police women and followed after the sergeant, John trotting behind. Although he was use to t by now, John still felt hurt and irritated when Sherlock ran off without him and all he could see was the back of his curly head bobbing away. He was quite a lot taller which didn't help. They screeched to a halt by a large blue and yellow van, the younger officer held out an envelope.

SHERLOCK  
Yellowed heavy paper, good quality. A navy seal with a stamped eagle and a Latin motto. Addressed in dark blue ink, female handwriting, fountain pen, 'to whom it may concern'. The edge had been cut carefully with a pair of scissors. He watched as sergeant Barnard slipped his wrinkled hand inside as pulled out the letter. Also on a sheet of heavy parchment-style paper and also handwritten, by the same person who had addressed the envelope. It was short, a single piece. The dark brown eyes of the older man skimmed across the page, flicking side to side. He groaned.  
"No finger prints?"  
"No sir."  
While they were discussing, his grip loosened and Sherlock seized his chance. Snatching it out of the sergeant's hand, he turned his back, ignoring the shouts of protest, and read:

To whom it may concern,  
I assume by now you have realised that one of your students is missing. I'm sure you know the drill, if you want to see him again, alive and unharmed, you will pay me the required sum of $840,000. I know perfectly well that this affordable and there will be no discussion. Please, if you have made your decision, either way, do call. It's just bad manners to ignore this message and if you do your child will suffer. Don't waste your time trying to stop me, and do be quick, as a great author once said, 'life is but a quick succession of nothings', and nothings bore me.

Yours very sincerely,  
C.B.  
(And no, of course those aren't my real initials.)

Following that was a phone number, a mobile. He heard Barnard's shouts and protests and John's sighs and looked up. The police offers were all glaring angrily at him; the sergeant's face almost blue with fury. John was laughing exasperatedly, trying to suppress his grin.  
"Mr Holmes," Barnard spat through gritted teeth, "that is important evidence and..."  
"I know, that's why I wanted to read it." John buried his face in his hands, biting his lip to stop himself form laughing out loud. Barnard ignored him.  
"You cannot just take evidence from the police, that is a chargeable offence..."  
"I was going to give it back..."  
"Oh my god, I'm dealing with a child!"  
"I'm 16."  
"Get out."  
"What?"  
"You heard me! You've given your evidence, now give bak ours and leave." taken aback at this sudden aggression, Sherlock raised his eyebrows and handed back the letter. Barnard lifted the yellow tape and jerked his head,  
"Go on."  
"Coming John?" He looked up, smiling and shaking his head, and followed Sherlock, ducking under the tape. Once they were out of earshot, Sherlock showed just he excited he was,  
"Yes! Ah, finally, something to do! We know something!" he feel elated, now they had something new to go on, that something new had happened, they could have some real fun!  
"What's was so great about the letter? You do realise poor Jamie's probably tied up in the back of a lorry right now?!"  
"Yes, and we're going to get him out. The letter was 'so great' because we now know something about the kidnapper!" when John didn't respond, he groaned, "the password, John! We can guess it now, well, I never guess."  
"What do you mean?"  
"'Life is but a quick succession of nothings'?" when he still looked nonplussed, Sherlock sighed and kept walking.


	9. CK - Chapter 9

Chapter 9

JOHN  
The bird faced librarian's face fell when she saw enter, she seemed to be remembering the last time they visited. John grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and whispered,  
"Don't do anything, weird" a look of mock outrage crossed his friend's face,  
"What do mean!" the librarian glared at them.  
"Shhh, we don't want to get thrown out!" he rolled his eyes and stomped off to the shelves at the back of the room. 'Classic literature' John muttered, flabbergasted. He followed.

"Why, are we in the classic literature section? Fancy a bit of Bronte?" Sherlock have him a 'not funny' look and went back to feverishly running his fingers along the thick spines. John glanced at the titles, 'Wuthering Heights', 'A Christmas carol', 'Emma', 'Jane Eyre'.  
"We're looking for a break in the dust line. Anywhere the book's been taken off the shelf." puzzled, but completely willing to help, John crouched on the floor to look at the bottom shelf. "The note, signed CB, the quote, it's got to be a reference."  
"Here," excitement pulsed through him, "Sherlock look at this," he passed the large paper back up. Sherlock took it excitedly and turned it over in his hands. Rushing to one of the small wooden tables, he sat down and pulled out his magnifying glass. John followed and watched, confused as his only friend stared intensely at the pages of the book. 'Pride and Prejudice', Jane Austen; the cover and spine clean of dust, the pale leaves creased and blotchy. Sherlock looked at it like it was his holy book. it was many minutes before he spoke, but when he did, he almost whispered, staring into space across the room:  
"Caroline Bingley."  
"Who?"  
"Austen villain, the note signed CB, the quote... the password. I've got it"  
"What? How can you..." but Sherlock interrupted before he could finish the question.  
"We know the kidnapper came here, we know they have a taste for classical literature, the quote in the letter, they use good stationary. They sign a note with one of the most hated characters in classic literature. The only book on that shelf that's been touched in at least a month is this," he held it up "and look, the first few pages are crumpled, this one here in the introduction is torn, but look, first chapter, all the pages are barely touched."  
"So?"  
"So?!" Sherlock slammed the book on the dusty glass desk and sank into the chair. The librarian scowled at them and the few people who were quietly reading looked up, alarmed.  
"Sherlock, don't... Look what does that all mean? What's the password?" spinning the plastic chair to face the ancient computer, he exhaled and places his fingers gently on the keys.  
"Read me the first line." John was still a little confused but he quickly skimmed over the pages to the first chapter.  
"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man of large..." his voice faded away as he was interrupted by Sherlock's cry of jubilation and a flurry of clicking keys. Bending down, John started at the small white box in the centre of the screen, into which his friend had just typed:  
TruthUniversallyAcknowledged   
He hit enter and they both held their breath. A small loading sign appeared and Sherlock beamed with pride.

SHERLOCK  
"Wow," breathed John from behind his head "what are we going to do now?"  
"Easy, we're going to read their files and then upload them to a memory stick..."  
"And show the police! Wow that's clever!"  
"No! We're not going to the police, no time. We're going to text the kidnapper and tell her we have he password."  
"Wait, we're going to text a kidnapper?!"  
"That's what I just said." John's mouth had formed a perfect O, his eyes wide in disbelief. After a moment he spluttered out of silence,  
"So the kidnapper's a woman?"  
"Well, maybe not the one who did the actual kidnapping, but the organiser is defiantly a woman." the dinosaur of a computer had finally loaded to reveal a black desktop with only one icon. A folder labelled 'stuff for work'. Fitting. Clicking on it revealed a large mass of documents all jumbled as one. No other folders, no filters, nothing.  
"Wow," John muttered, "organised."  
"She's done it on purpose," Sherlock snapped back "obviously." he heard his friend pull out a chair and flop into it. Great, now one more person was mad at him, he knew john probably wasn't going to be talking for a while, so he turned back to the screen. Scrolling through the endless list of documents with titles such as 'Diogenes report' and 'letter to Margo', he grew more and more irritated. She had hidden her plans well. "Damn it" he slammed his hands on the desk in frustration.  
"Do you mind!" the librarian had finally lost her temper, "If you two can't be quiet I'll have to ask you to leave!" ironic that she was shouting. John stood up and looked over at him,  
"What?"  
"Aren't we leaving then?"  
"I can be quiet!" John raised an eyebrow sceptically. "All right, let me just load these onto my USB." as he plugged it in he heard John mutter  
"Who in Britain says USB?"

Once at home, he sank onto his bed and waited. His parents and brother were going to the theatre that evening, once they were gone, he could use the phone without them disturbing him. He loved when they all went out; even if he thought he might enjoy the outing, he always declined, just to be alone. He could play his violin as loud as he wanted without his father storming through the door telling him to 'stop that racket', stay in room without Mycroft bursting in uninvited, watch the history channel without his mother wanting to switch to 'Grand Designs'. Only twenty minutes to wait now...

MOLLY  
He still hadn't talked to her. She'd been avoiding him like the plague, but she'd hoped he would find her. Mortified and alone, she sat on the cold shower floor and waited to hear the click of the door locking that meant she was alone. They were going to a stupid book club or something... Salty tears mixed with the soapy water from the shower head. She liked being alone, she could sing as loud as she wanted, turn her music up to maximum volume, raid the fridge and slob out in front of the tv with no one breathing threats of 'all your homework will pile up' down her neck. She could sit here in the shower, on her own, for as long as she wanted.

(('On my Own' – Les Mis is a pretty good description of how Molly's feeling.))

JOHN  
He did feel homesick sometimes; in Africa his parents had never left the house without him because, even though they were a long way from the conflict, it was too dangerous. Now his mother was the other side of the country and he would never see his father again.  
In the boarding house you were always alone, and yet everyone was just the other side of the wall. He had never liked being alone, but if he had to be, he wanted all the freedoms that being alone allowed and he didn't have them here…

SHERLOCK  
"Alright, we're going now." his mother's voice carried up the stairs. Sherlock didn't reply. He heard the sound of the front door closing and scrabbled for his phone. Even after they had taken the random note off him it was too late, he had memorised it, along with the number. He typed:

_It is TruthUniversallyAcknowledged that a kidnapper who keeps there plans in there computer documents cannot expect them to remain there._

And pressed send, withholding his own number. Waiting for a response was more painful than waiting for his parents to leave. He drummed his long fingers on the bedside table, checking his inbox every few seconds. Suddenly, it vibrated on his hand and he flipped it open.

_I'm glad to see you're also a lover of fine writing. What have you done with my files? Don't lie to me, my courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me._

Raising one eyebrow, he typed feverishly in response:

_Don't worry, they're perfectly safe on a memory stick. I assume you know what I could do with this._

It only took a few seconds before he got a reply:

_What would I do if I wanted this memory stick?___

_Let me meet you. Face to face. Tonight. The woods. Midnight._

His heart raced as he sent it; would he even get a reply?  
_  
__It would be a pleasure._

Smiling to himself, Sherlock lay back on his pillow and wrote a new message.

JOHN  
It was ten thirty when he finally clambered into bed. He turned on the bedside lamp and sat up against the pillows to check his phone and set his alarm, yawning slightly. One new message, it read:

_I need to go into the woods, tonight. I'm coming over, meet me by the front door at 11.__  
__SH_

Oh my god. What the hell?! Did Sherlock really expect him to get put of bed, get dressed and sneak out of bed after hours just to go for a nice walk in the woods?! There was something he wasn't being told. Sighing, he hauled himself out of bed, which was just getting warm, and yanked his jeans out from under the large pile of uniform. Grabbing his converse, he poked his head through the door. He knew it take quite a lot to wake Matron McKenzie up, but he would be in a hell of a lot of trouble of she did. Tiptoeing along the corridor, he pulled out his phone, nearly eleven. He was just going to have to walk out the front door and hope no one saw him.

It creaked slightly, he stood motionless and listened. Nothing. Pulling the door wide, he slipped outside and closed it as quietly as possible.  
"Hello." John jumped about a mile in the air, stuffing his gist into his mouth to atop himself from crying out.  
"Sherlock!" he whispered angrily, "you have to stop doing that!"  
"What? Come on let's go"  
"where exactly are we going?"  
"We're looking for something."  
"But what?!" he smiled knowingly, his dark hair casting a long shadow over his face so that most of it was hidden. He spun on his heel and walked off into the darkness without a word. 'Damn it!' John followed.


	10. CK - Chapter 10

Chapter 10

SHERLOCK  
It was cold. A dense fog clung to the forest floor, as though it were pinned there. The only noise was their footsteps and the occasional rustle. The wood, Mutton on the Wold forest reserve, wasn't technically part of the school grounds but it was so close, you only had to duck under some old wire fencing. In the distance, above the tree tops, he could just see the long borne eye sore of the tall brick chimneys. Still no sign. He wasn't really sure what he was expecting, he was curious. Would she come in the flesh, or send an accomplice? Probably the later. He wasn't going to give up the USB, of course, it was his intention to give it to the police. Eventually. He had entertained that they might force him to give it up, but even if they did, he would still know what they were planning. Kind of. The files wouldn't load on his laptop, and though he suspected the encoding wouldn't be very difficult to crack, he didn't have any idea what it all meant. But they didn't need to know that.  
"Sherlock," johns voice from behind him "Sherlock I don't think this is a good idea..." His phone buzzed in his pocket and he wrenched it out.

_I'm waiting_

He started running.

JOHN  
"Sherlock!" he yelled, but his friend was already out of earshot; or just not listening. My god! What was his problem?! Ask someone to come with you and then run of without them?! Scrambling furiously over the tree roots, he stumbled, the sound of his hurried footsteps sounding through the trees and undergrowth. Why were yet even here?  
A voice suddenly rose above the tree tops, loud and horse.  
"Over here, we're waiting for you." he stopped. The truth hit him like a speeding bullet. He groaned, cursing inwardly, Sherlock had texted them.  
"Sherlock," he whispered into the darkness, careful not to shout this time.  
"Do be quick, I'm losing my patience." what had he said? What had he promised them? The damp leaves and pine needles squelched under foot as he slowly inched forward, trying to head away from the voice. Why had Sherlock even brought him along anyway I'd he was just going to abandon him? He pulled his jacket tighter around him, wishing he had worn another layer.

A gunshot rang in the frosty air. The sound reverberating off the thick trunks. Skidding to a halt, John turned his head this way and that, listening intently. Nothing. All he could hear was his own heavy, fast breathing. What the hell was going on?! Why hadn't he explained?! He pulled his mobile out of his jeans pocket; no signal.

SHERLOCK  
Did they not understand that it was hard to find a specific location in a large, dense forest? But now he knew they had a gun he wasn't sure he wanted to find them. He had known of course they would bring one, but now the danger seemed very real. He shouldn't have left John.

JOHN  
John turned his head sharply as a second gunshot was fired into the air. His heart beat like a broken metronome set at 300 beats per minute. He covered his ears and continued to stumble forward, eyes straining in the darkness for a sign of his friend. That terrible voice rang out again over the dark tree tops, low, angry, loud enough to carry over the autumn winds.  
"We've got him, Give yourself up, or..." another gun shot, birds flapped and squawked overhead, John winced at the noise. "We've got him!" Sherlock.  
"Sherlock!" John shouted into the darkness.

SHERLOCK  
His back pressed flat against the tree, Sherlock closed his eyes. John, they'd got John. He didn't know what to do now. Oh, god. He covered his face with his hands and groaned. Sliding his sweaty palms down his cheeks, he turned and started running. Weaving in and out of the pines, dodging the brambles and the thick weeds. He couldn't be far away. His only concern was to find his friend.

JOHN  
"Sherlock, Sherlock!" john's voice became more and more panicked as he stumbled and ran through the dense brambles and thick tree trunks. Bang. A third gunshot rang in the air. The shock nearly threw him forward, bit he regained his balance just in time. He kept running, getting desperate, disoriented and confused.  
"John," he heard a voice behind him and this time he did fall. An awkward tree root caught him out as he craned his neck backwards. The forest floor rushed up to meet him, Pine needles and dirt covered his cloths, hair and face. He rolled over onto his back and, breathing heavily, looked up. Sherlock's lanky silhouette stood out against the blackened sky and the tree tops, the few pale stars reflecting in his eyes, one hand extended down towards his fallen friend, white fingers contrasting with the darkness that surrounded them.  
"Sherlock! Don't, ever do that again!"  
Allowing Sherlock to help him to his feet, John swore loudly.  
"I'm sorry..." he looked very uncomfortable. "I guess is my fault you fell over..."  
"It's not that!" why didn't he understand? "You scared me!"  
"I know, you fell. I said I'm sorry..."  
"No, I thought... I thought they were going to... I'm just glad you're ok" he wanted to reach out, to touch him, to know they were going to be safe. He wanted to feel secure, protected.  
A sudden blinding light filled the small clearing and both boys squinted, thrusting their hands over their eyes.  
"Put your hands where I can see them!" a disembodied shout from the behind the light. John lifted is hands. The situation reminded him of what had happened in Africa, to his father. Now they were in trouble.

SHERLOCK  
Three men, three torches, three beams of white light shining in his face. They stood round the clearing forming an isosceles triangle. Why hadn't they gone for equilateral, they'd made it easier to escape. Why couldn't people think?  
"You in the scarf, hands up!" Sherlock stood stock still. "Don't think we won't shoot you, we're armed" reluctantly, he raised his hands to shoulder height. The men had lowered their torches now, the beams crossed on the floor, all the particulates in the air revealed in there yellow light. "Step away from each other. Now!" Sherlock's heart beat was irregular, his breathing heavy and he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body. Any second now. A man dressed in all black moved forward into the light, a gun pointed right at him. "I believe you arranged a meeting," he spoke with a faint Glaswegian accent, throaty and aggressive.  
"Yes,"  
"and I believe you have something of ours?"  
"Yes,"  
"May I ask how you acquired it?"  
Sherlock smirked, "your password wasn't exactly secure." the man's eyebrows raised a fraction,  
"Oh really? And you thought it would be a good idea to copy all our files onto a memory stick and keep them?"  
"Just in case. You never know when you might need poorly encoded kidnap plans."  
"All right kiddo, enough with the sass, do you really think we're gonna let you get away with this?"  
"No, I assumed you would want it back, it's essential no one knows your 'top secret plan'"  
"And the code?"  
"Classic literature. Not a difficult deduction given your password and the ransom note." the man chuckled and raised the gun.  
"How did you guess the password?"  
"I never guess." his face contorted with annoyance.  
"And you think I won't try and kill you just because you're, what, 15?!"  
"16." he replied indignantly, "And that would be very ambitious of you." The stony look on his face should have been his first indicator. It was his turn to smirk, "I can see you're going to need a little extra incentive," he nodded at the man to his right.

JOHN  
One minuet he was standing as still as he could only three feet from his friend, next second he was on his knees, arms twisted painfully behind his back, a gun pressing into his neck. He didn't even have time to cry out, but Sherlock did.  
"John!" raising his head slightly, John could see the fear in the pale face, he tried to give some indication that he was alright, that he wasn't panicking. But the pain must have showed on his face because Sherlock turned and started to move towards him.  
"Stop." the commanding voice of the first man in black ricocheted off the surrounding trees. Both boys were motionless, their eyes locked onto each other. The ball of someone's foot pressed into the small of John's backs and the gun jabbed at his neck. He looked back down at the floor, breathing hard.  
"I'm going to make this easy for you, you can give us the memory stick, or you can watch us blow your little friend's brains out." In the silence that followed you could have heard a pin drop. The sound of pine needles crunching underfoot, someone was moving and he doubted it was Sherlock. He didn't dare lift his eyes.  
"Thank you." said a growling voice.

SHERLOCK  
His yellowing hand may have been outstretched, but Sherlock didn't place the memory stick onto his palm.  
"What happens now?" he asked, jerking his right hand away for the man.  
"You give it to me. Oh, you mean to you and your buddy." he had clearly noticed Sherlock's blue eyes flicking over to check on John, it was probably quite obvious then. "You give me that," he gestured to the hand holding the memory stick, "and then we drive away, and you're free to go back to wherever you came from."  
"Really?"  
"Really."  
"I'm not predisposed to believe you."  
"You're not really in a position to have a choice," he smiled cruelly, nodding in the direction of John, huddled on the ground. "I'll give you a minuet to think about it."  
"How generous." Sherlock's mind was racing, there must be a way out. But he couldn't see it.  
"Actually, you know what? I'm tired of waiting. I'll give you, I'm not sure, what do you think Bruce, on the count of three?"  
"What?! No!"

JOHN  
"One..." John gasped as he realised what was happening. The man behind him, Bruce, twisted his arm tighter and pushed the barrel of the gun further into the base of his neck. He tried to struggle, but from behind his head came a harsh whisper,  
"No use, I wouldn't even bother." he could almost hear Sherlock's brain working furiously.  
"Two..."  
"Sherlock!" he shouted and was rewarded with a jab in the small of the back.  
"Shut it you!"  
"Thr..." he closed his eyes, bracing himself.  
"Here!" Sherlock's voice reverberated around the clearing and once again the woods fell silent. All John could hear was the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. "Here, take it." footsteps, then the Glaswegian spoke.  
"Thank you, I thought that would help you make up your mind. Now next time you go trying to be all clever..."  
"I don't need to try." Crap. He didn't need to look up to see the look of pure, unadulterated loathing on their capture's face right now.  
"Just remember that we're armed. Now, what's gonna happen now is we're going to walk back to our truck and drive away. You are going to stay here. Come after us, and we'll shoot you. Clear?" John assumed Sherlock had nodded but he didn't dare raise his head. "Alright then. Bruce, Carl, let's split." the pressure left his neck and he felt his arms being released, the other man was backing away. He knew gun was still on him though, he didn't move. He wasn't moving until he knew they had gone. Even when the light had faded, he stayed huddled on the floor.


	11. CK - Chapter 11

Chapter 11

SHERLOCK  
Sherlock waited until they were completely or of sight and the sound of their footsteps had faded before he moved. He ran the few steps over to John and grabbed his shoulders, shaking them slightly. "they're gone, John they're gone, they're gone..." John looked up at him, swore quietly and collapsed into Sherlock's arms, throwing his own around his saviour's waist. Sherlock was shocked, something he was not use to, his arms were held above his head, but he slowly lowered them. Human contact. He had never had much, not positive anyway... The sensation was so... strange. And yet, he felt safe. Even though John was a head shorted than him (he could rest his pointed chin on the top of his blonde head) he felt like no one could touch him, not here, not now. He felt more at hone than he had ever done at no. 7 Greenwich rd. And suddenly John's face was level with his and he felt their lips touch, only slightly, but it was enough. His heart was beating so loudly he felt it echoing all around, he was surprised the ground wasn't vibrating. It was so unnatural, so unnerving... And yet he felt as though it was nothing new, like he had had years of practice. Two and a half seconds exactly, before John pulled away. He looked as shocked at himself as Sherlock was, he drew breath loudly and looked down at the floor, crimson glowing in his cheeks and spreading up to his ears. They knelt there in stunned, confused silence for what seemed like forever, before Sherlock spoke quietly. "What was that?" John sat back on the balls of his feet.  
"I don't know, in sorry, god, I'm so sorry..."  
"But what are you thinking? Tell me, John," when he got no answer, "please?" the shorter boy groaned,  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I just... I thought, well... Molly got her turn to, err, experiment..." they were both still crouching on the damp forest floor, in an attempt to break the extremely awkward pause, Sherlock spoke.  
"We should probably get back, being held at gun point and everything..." John didn't reply. "You should see the nurse," standing up, Sherlock extended his hand again. John took it, muttering "I'm fine." his hands were trembling.  
"You're not, you're shaking, your wrists..." they were red, raw from where they had been twisted backwards, bruises already forming.  
"I am! Sherlock, really, I don't need to go to the nurse, and it's nearly two o'clock in the morning now."  
"Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I should come with you."  
"I'll be fine."  
"What if it's locked?" pause. John still looked upset, but he had stopped shaking now.  
"I brought a key, I'm not stupid.."  
"Were do you get that idea?"

JOHN  
He had let go of Sherlock's hand as soon as he was upright, but he half wished he hadn't. No matter how odd that kiss had felt, he couldn't explain it, there was something there. Even though they had been alone in the middle of a dark wood in the earliest hours of the morning, he had felt safe. Protected. Now he was vulnerable, alone. He had ruined their friendship and he knew it. All it would be now was awkward, though that was nothing new. More silence than speech. He would be like molly, cast off, ignored. But at the same time, he couldn't say whole heartedly that he regretted his actions...

It was about forty minuets later that they reached the door to the boarding house, John reached for the key in his inside pocket.  
"You don't have to come in with me,"  
"I know. I want to."  
"Sherlock, it's nearly three o'clock, please, just go home? I'm fine, honestly, really!"  
"Fine." john pushed open the black front door and asked "will they have locked the gates?"  
"Maybe."  
"What will you do?!"  
"Climb." another long pause, there were a lot of long pauses.  
"Listen, Sherlock, thank you."  
"For what?"  
"For giving him that memory stick." they stared at each other.  
"What else was I supposed to do?" a sudden flash back of himself in a school corridor, saying the same thing to Molly Hooper popped into his head. What would she say if she knew what had happened in the woods...  
"Sherlock, what happened in there,.."  
"You mean the kidnappers thing or the, other thing?"  
"The, other thing. You're bit planning on telling anyone that?"  
"Whom exactly would I tell?"  
"No one, I just, I was just checking."  
"John I'm not stupid."  
"I know you're not."  
"Good night John." Sherlock gestured for him to step inside, murdering something about cold.  
"Night."

•••••••••••••••••••  
Thank god it was a Saturday. He loved that moment in the morning, still dark and peaceful, but you lay awake when everyone else slept on. He didn't think he could have faced another say at school, and not just because he was tired. He just knew he'd gone and blown the whole thing, and so was extremely surprised when the piano riff of his ringtone sounded in the dark. He squinted at the bright screen. It wasn't Sherlock, it was his mother. He couldn't help being a little disappointed.

_How are you darling?_

She always sent the most cringe-y texts. He had never been particularly close to her, obviously the incident had brought them closer, she had lost a husband as he had lost a father, but he had always spent time with his father. Over protective, optimistic and forgiving, she had always been there for him, but in a hover-y, irritating way, she never left him alone. He guessed it came from being an only child, and it didn't help that she was a fundamental Christian. Not the 'marching down streets with "god hates fags" signs' fundamental Christian, not the 'standing on street corners with a bible and telling everyone they're going to hell' fundamental Christian, but the 'taking the bible more literally than others' fundamental Christian. His father was an atheist and his aunt a converted Muslim, so he had been the 'deciding vote' in many religious arguments, always the unbiased referee. Switzerland, his father had said. He did want to closer, he really did. But it was difficult, they were so different. The only traits he got from her were his blonde hair and forgiving nature, or 'being a pushover' as his father had said. Another family joke. He missed them. He replied with:

_Fine. I got an A on the last geography test._

and lay back on his pillow. He couldn't believe he'd only been here a week, and already he'd made friends, made enemies, been witness to an attempted kidnapping, been shouted at by the local librarian and been held at gunpoint in exchange for a USB drive. The bright screen glowed once more:

_Made any friends?_

He didn't reply for a while, not really knowing what to say. Eventually he decided on

_Yes_

SHERLOCK  
He hadn't slept. He was trying to think. Usually he didn't need to try, but his head was full of distractions. He had been lucky to get back inside the house without detection, his parents and brother had already gone to bed. Now that they no longer had the memory stick, they were in a bit of a dilemma, they didn't have any proof of what they were saying. He did have experience of the police being too ignorant to believe him. They should really go as soon as possible, he pulled his phone out of the draw and flipped it up to reveal the qwerty keyboard.  
_  
__We need to go to the police station as soon as possible, I'll be there at 12 if convenient.__  
__SH__  
_  
It didn't take long to get a reply, John was already awake.

_Why do I have to come?__  
__JW___

_Because you're a witness! I'm pretty sure holding people at gun point or illegal...__  
__SH___

_In pretty sure 'borrowing' evidence, memorising a phone number and then texting a kidnapper, meeting them and not telling your friend anything isn't that great either...__  
__JW__  
_  
'touché' Sherlock muttered under his breath. He was glad there had been no mention of what else happened in the woods, he didn't really know what to think or feel. He didn't really do 'feelings'.

_Well I'm coming, even if it's inconvenient.__  
__SH_

Leaping out of bed, he wandered aimlessly around his bedroom, snatching up cloths form the debris that layered the floor. Finally, grabbing a pair of discarded trainers, he pushed open his bedroom door and stomped down stairs.  
"Where are you going?" Mycroft had also opened his door onto the hallway.  
"Out." he really wasn't in the mood for bickering with his brother.  
"Where?"  
"Will you just piss off?!" Sherlock shouted upstairs, grabbing a set of keys and pulling open the front door.  
"Mum!"  
"Sherlock, apologise to your brother!" but he was already outside and stalking away, pulling his coat collar up against the wind.

It was generally called a friendly village, neighbours talked to each other about the most trivial things. But no one ever smiled at him in the streets. They had learnt by now that they would get no response, most people turned away when he walked pat their gardens, told their children not to talk to the 'strange Holmes boys'. Not that he was complaining, he didn't want their pointless questions and irritating comments.  
As he walked, he speculated as to where the kidnappers were now, but his thoughts kept being invaded by memories of the night before. He had never been as scared before as he was when that man had started counting. And afterwards... He was glad there wasn't school today, he really didn't want to talk about it.

The large iron gates were closed at the weekends, but a smaller side door was propped open with an old log. He checked his watch, half eleven. As he approached the building he could see that John wasn't waiting outside, he was probably still having breakfast or something.


	12. CK - Chapter 12

Chapter 12  
JOHN  
The cafeteria was small with a shiny wooden floor and one oak panelled wall. The rest were painted a horrible pale peachy colour. It evoked memories of Katherine's office walls, Dr. Katherine Lee, but she had told him to call her Katherine. Long, Formica topped tables with unforgiving benches ran from one end to the other. The food was also rather disappointing. He had brought a pot of his mother's home made jam for such an eventuality, but it seemed he was going to run out before the end of the month. Maybe she could send more, but postage was expensive if it was all the way from northern Scotland. The house they owned there was large and remote, it wasn't really an ideal location, nor was it an ideal size, and it was in need of repairs. But, it was built by his great grandfather and consequently didn't have a mortgage. It was the only reason they lived there really, they couldn't afford anywhere else.  
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a low voice from behind his head.  
"Morning." spluttering on a mouthful of hot tea, John spun around angrily. Laughter carried from the other tables, descending into clamorous whispers. They were talking about him and he didn't like it, since last night he had become even more concerned about what they were saying.  
"Sherlock! You have got to stop doing that!" he said hotly, gesturing to the spilled tea all over the table.  
"What?!"  
"Sneaking up on people!"  
"I don't sneak!"  
"What was that then?!"  
"It's not my fault you have defective hearing." John stared open mouthed, gesticulating furiously. Eventually giving up and throwing his hands down at his sides, he stormed to the kitchen area and grabbed a stack of paper towels.

Pulling his jumper over his head, he followed Sherlock to the glass doors of the police station, feeling slightly pleased when his friend held them open for him. The nerves had started to creep in, he hated the clinical atmosphere, the plain white walls, the muted glass, the uniformity. It brought it all back, reminding him of all the hospitals; god knows he'd seen enough of those to last a lifetime.

SHERLOCK  
He loved being in the station, finally involved, surrounded by facts and information. They didn't love having him there. He saw the face of the solemn receptionist fall and his eyes fly to the ceiling as if praying for help. Sherlock marched straight up to him and leaning forward over the black polished wood.  
"I need to see sergeant Barnard." the man sighed,  
"he warned me about you, said if a boy with dark hair, scarf and short friend say they have to see me, tell them to leave."  
"This is important!" why were that a so ignorant!  
"Yeah, he said even if it's 'important'" John poked his head awkwardly round from behind him to see why's was going on.  
"Ok, tell him this, I met the kidnapper. Well, her accomplice, I hacked their computer folders, I have about ten ideas about where she is now and John here nearly got shot in head by a Glaswegian in the process. Maybe he'll find that interesting. I know I did." he hadn't realised he was shouting until he reached the end of sentence and all he could hear was his heavy breathing in the deafening silence. Several more officers had turned to look. After what seemed like hours, the receptionist picked up the phone on the edge of the desk and pressed the intercom button.  
"Sergeant Barnard, there's two boys here to... Yes, yes I told them that's what you said... Yeah, but... You might want to hear what they have to say... They nearly got shot... Ok, yes I'll send them trough in a minuet." Sherlock turned and smiled proudly at John, who was still standing uncomfortably a few paces behind him, one arm across his chest clutching the other at his elbow. Was this about what had happened in the woods?  
"Alright boys, you can go through in a moment, if you wouldn't mind waiting..." he pointed at the plastic chairs over in the corner.

They both slumped heavily into the chairs, only to be disappointed by the lack of comfort they offered. John stared at the grey linoleum floor as though nothing could interest him more. Sherlock was no expert (surprisingly, he considered himself an expert in many fields) in body language and emotions, but he strongly suspected he knew what was on his friend's mind. He too was having difficulty pushing it to the back of his thoughts.  
"Are you all right?" the words tumbled out of his mouth before he knew he wanted to say them. John raised his warm grey eyes slightly, and shook his head. Ah, right. Well, he didn't know what to do now. People were so confusing, what to say and do and what was accepted, expected, needed. "Why?"

JOHN  
His shoulders lowered as he took a deep, shuddering breath.  
"I don't like it. The whole... Clinical, white."  
"What's wrong with white?"  
"It's just, it reminds me of hospital. I've spent enough time in hospital." in the burns unit, the X-ray studio, the morgue, the emergency room, the crowded children's ward, the operating theatre, he could go on. The waiting was always the worst, whether it was waiting to see if you had fractured your ankle, waiting to finally be let out and enjoy the holidays again, or waiting for your father to wake up from a coma.

Eventually, although he could have waited forever, the officer behind the desk called over the bustling of people coming and going and the rustling of papers:  
"You can go through now. He said you'd know the way." Sherlock nodded, springing up and straightening his coat and turning up the collar. He waited as John gathered himself and stood up. He couldn't help feel uplifted slightly, seeing him standing there, waiting. He never waited. John still felt awkward around him since yesterday, but he knew this was important. And even if he tried he couldn't bear to be sitting on his own in the boarding house. He couldn't bare to be in anyone else's company. Taking a deep, calming breath like Katherine had told him to, he walked forward, smiling slightly, and followed Sherlock down the corridor.

Sergeant Barnard sat leaning forward in his chair, hands resting on a balled fist. His eyes narrowed, swapping from one face to the other. John bit his lip uncomfortably and looked down at the carpeted floor. Both boys lowered themselves into a second set of plastic chairs.  
"Right then, Mr Holmes, would you like to explain to me exactly what the hell is going on?!" John flinched unconsciously as the sergeant raised his voice. Sherlock shrugged,  
"I could try,"  
"You cannot just get in contact with a dangerous criminal! You can't just not give in any evidence you have! And you most certainly cannot just give something as important as that USB to the kidnappers!" all through this rant, Sherlock had sat motionless, but that final sentence saw him stand up angrily.  
"So I was supposed to just them shoot us?!"  
"You were supposed to give that USB to us as soon as you had the files!"  
"There was no information on there you could use, but from going into that forest I learnt a whole lot more!" John's fingernails scratched the plastic surface of the underside of the chair, he hadn't realised he was clutching it so tightly, his knuckles were white as hospital walls.

SHERLOCK  
He glared at the sergeant, their eyes were locked onto each other. In the end, Sherlock was the first to break the stare; how eyes flickered downwards to his friend. He could only see the top of John's blonde head; he sat tense and looking at the floor. His hands pale, clutching the underside of the chair, the tendons taught and visible against the skin. Seeing his discomfort, Sherlock sat back down, giving Barnard a 'stop shouting' look. The sergeant too sat done at the desk.  
"So," he began, more gently this time, "you got the files onto the memory stick, and you, texted the kidnapper?"  
"Yes." Sherlock was glad to see johns hands had relaxed slightly.  
"And then you went to meet him..."  
"Her, well her accomplices."  
"Right, and, then what happened?" glancing over at the shorter boy, Sherlock answered,  
"We met them. They ambushed us in a clearing, they were armed."  
"So.." there was a long pause, Sherlock still unsure how exactly to say. Then, John spoke.  
"He put a gun to my head." Sherlock and the sergeant both stared at him, shocked. "He said if we didn't give him the memory stick, he'd shoot me." his voice cracked slightly on the last few syllables.  
"Right, and then, um..." Sherlock resumed the narrative, "I gave it to him."  
"And?"  
"They left. We went back to the boarding house, then I walked back to my house." Barnard nodded.  
"And the password?"  
"TruthUniversallyAcknowledged."  
"What? How?" exhaling deeply, he rolled his eyes and spoke quickly.  
"Quote in the letter, Austen. Carpet fibres, library. Only break in the dust line at the library, pride and prejudice, first line." Barnard sat still for a moment, before shaking his head  
"I'll take your word for it. You boys can go." they rose in unison and headed for the door. "Wait." stopping, Sherlock rolled his eyes, ready for the lecture, john had continued through the door "I don't want you meddling in police affairs again, d'you hear me?"  
"Yeah..."  
"Holmes, I'm serious. Look where it got you."  
"I'm fine!" Barnard raised an eyebrow, looking through the full length window at John, who was waiting outside, getting a glass of water,  
"Is he?" that stumped him, which didn't happen often. He didn't know. And that was when it hit him, he didn't know anything about friendship, about people, about John. He didn't answer, he hated to say 'I don't know', he just walked out of the door.

As they walked, Sherlock was running though the facts in his head, all the information he knew about the boy walking beside him. To be honest, it was a very short list. He felt compelled to say something, but he didn't know what.  
"Are you okay?"

JOHN  
The sound of Sherlock's low voice brought him back from his thoughts abruptly.  
"Oh, yeah," he mumbled, "fine." after a long pause, his friend spoke again,  
"No you're not."  
"Since when we're you an expert on my feelings?!"  
"We'll I don't know, I guess yesterday have me some idea..." he responded sarcastically. John blushed, the embarrassment was still fresh in his memory. "I'm sorry." his head snapped back up again at this. Did Sherlock Holmes just apologise?! "Explain. I want to understand." pause "please?" he nodded slowly.  
"Okay."

They sat down together on a damp wooden beach, butterflies had once again invaded his stomach.  
"What do you want to know?"  
"What happened in the hospital?"  
"Everything. You know, just, bad experiences." Sherlock looked disbelievingly at him,  
"I saw you gripping that chair for dear life, what's so bad about, white?"  
"I hate it." it was all flooding back to him, "It's... to do with my dad. He was a UN army doctor. When we lived in Africa, we, we thought we were safe," he felt the moisture in the corners of his eyes, could almost taste the salt. Don't cry, don't cry. "They came in the night. They set the house on fire. They were armed, we couldn't get out. My dad... He was in a coma for nearly a week, I had burns, my mum broke her leg under a falling beam..." he paused to gulp at the air, he could almost hear her screaming. "We had to talk to the police, the army, the hospital. Katherine, Dr Katherine Lee. My therapist. My dad... He's dead." he could defiantly taste salt now, but his voice was steady. He suddenly felt cool dry skin against his feverishly hot hand. The pallid palm of his friend slipped into his relaxed fist. Rough skin, and yet gentle and calming. He felt safer, the few tears stopped flowing. John sat, staring down at their two hands for a moment before he looked up into Sherlock's face.  
"What are you doing?" a faint pink glow rose in his pale cheeks,  
"Another experiment?" silence. Their hands slowly intertwined, the long, ice cold fingers of the curly haired boy sliding into the gaps between John's own, he was embarrassed to find he was sweating slightly. "I'm sorry, John."

John didn't let go as they stood up, but he had to admit he was less at ease. Even when he had been going out with girls in the past, he had never liked showing public signs of affection, and felt too inwardly confused about Sherlock to show any outward signs. They weren't a couple, what happened in the wood, it didn't count. But he didn't let go, his legs were still shaking a little and that cold hand was the only thing keeping him from falling. Eventually, he felt the need to ask  
"are we going to do this all the way to the boarding house?"  
"I thought you were doing it?"  
"I thought you were doing it, you started it!" silence, "I'm very confused, Sherlock."  
"Me too." glad that it was mutual, John relaxed his grip, slowly pulling his hand away.  
"Why did you do that?" John was shocked to hear a pining note in the usually low and measured voice.  
"Well, what of someone sees us?"  
"John, Mutton on the Wold isn't exactly the West Bourgh Baptist Church. No one's going to care"

"People will talk…"

"They do little else…"  
"I know, it's just, well, I'm still confused, and, well, that's usually something couples do."  
"What?"  
"Holding hands, it's kind of a, thing couples do. We're not a couple."  
"Oh."


	13. CK - Chapter 13

Chapter 13

SHERLOCK  
The main priority now was to find put where the kidnapper was now. They couldn't go back to the library, they would have changed the password by now, and anyway, he wasn't sure they'd let him back in... Where? Where would you go to hide someone? Somewhere blatantly obvious, or somewhere obscure and well hidden? The easiest place to hide is in plain sight, everyone knew that, and it had to be somewhere close because they'd been to the library and it hadn't taken long for them to get to the forest... They must be close, they'd been stalking the boy for months. Launching himself off the bed, Sherlock bounded across the room to the small, crammed book shelf and ran his long fingers over the many spines. Fingers that, less than an hour ago, had been encased by someone else's... When he reached the wide, peeling spine of the 'yellow pages', he yanked it of the shelf with such force a few of the already loose pages fluttered to the floor. Heaving it onto the desk, he flicked to the index and let the majority of the pages slam down onto the surface. Bending forward, he slid his index fingers down the seemingly endless list. The door creaked open and Mycroft's rat face poked through,  
"Sherlock, mother says its dinner time." Sherlock ignored him. "Sherlock, mother says..."  
"I heard you. "A long pause followed, the tension was palpable, the two brothers trying to outlast each other.  
"As in now?!"  
"I'm not hungry."  
"For god's sake!" burying his curly head deeper into the directory, Sherlock didn't respond. "Fine, I'll tell her you're not coming." silence. Eventually, his older brother sighed and walked away, leaving the door wide open. Sherlock's ocean coloured eyes skimmed the lines of numbers and addresses, trying to find anywhere close and large enough to keep someone hostage, somewhere connected to literature, Austen, Austen... A feminine voice drifted up the stone stairs,  
"Sherlock! Come down for dinner!" Jesus, could they not appreciate how important this was!  
"I'm not hungry!" a pause, followed by his father's rough, loud voice,  
"Sherlock, get down here right now and eat dinner with your family!"  
"I said I'm not hungry!"  
"I don't give a damn, get down here!" groaning loudly, he slumped forward out of the desk chair and stomped down the stairs, wishing more than ever that he could run away, leave them behind and just lie still, thinking.

JAMIE  
His eyes snapped open; straining furiously into the blackness. He lifted his head off his shoulder, neck sore from the awkward position, and straightened his back. Wrists rubbed raw from the rough rope, ankles aching from the pressure of the cold metal chair leg that dug into his heels, head throbbing from the constant darkness and lack of nourishment. Cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck, his pale brown fringe glued to his forehead. He tried once more to loosen the cord that was digging into his wrists, it was only rope, why couldn't he get it undone! 'Ugh!' The 16 year old shouted in frustrated and leant his head backwards on the low backed chair, panting loudly, his Adams apple throbbing.  
A sliver of white light shone into the room, revealing a tall, slender and curved shadow of his capture.  
"darling," she drawled in clipped RP, "glad to see you're enjoying your morning." he struggled and squirmed as she walked towards him, "oh, don't get up on my account." anger pulsed through his veins as she stood there in front of him, staring down in triumph. She was so beautiful, so terrible. "Now, what are we going to do about your father? You know he still hasn't bothered to send me a message," she whined mockingly, "I guess you're going to be here for quite some time..." her long dark nails were the first part to make contact as she gently brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, he jerked away from her,  
"don't, touch me." she stuck out her lower lip, widening her heavily mascar-ed eyes in a puppy like expression. But her voice was cold and commanding.  
"I will do whatever I please until your father coughs up his cash. I will keep you here forever of that's how long it takes."  
"They will find you," all his frustration was bubbling to the surface, "the police, they'll find you, and they'll take me back and you'll go to prison" she turned her head slowly back round to face him. Dark, almost black eyes stare into his green pair, scarlet ringlets and waves cascaded over her brow and extended right down past her shoulders. The sudden pain shot through his cheek like a knife, the noise of her white hand hitting his face echoed around the room, loud as a gunshot. His head hung down by his left shoulder, eyes closed, cheek stinging, a bruise already forming. All he could hear now was his own breathing and beating heart. Then she spoke,  
"the police, they're all imbeciles. I wouldn't put much hope in them darling, the most they've done I'd send to teenage boys into the woods with my computer files. Brave boy, very handsome, lovely cheekbones, tried awfully hard to help. In the end it was very easy to get to him." she had straightened back up, the flowing silk of her blouse catching the light from the doorway. Jamie was confused, what boy? Who was it that had come into the forest and tried to help him? "You know what? They seemed more interested in helping you than your own father, maybe I should, give him a call?" slipping one hand into the pocket of her tight black skirt (he assumed it was black, he couldn't really see in the darkness) she pulled out her mobile. It was a touch screen, new, one of the latest models. He wandered how she could use it with such long nails... She tapped away at the screen for a minuet in silence and then resumed her talking, "There we are, now please, would you mind awfully keeping it down? I always think it's good manners to hush when someone's on on the phone." she tapped at the screen again and a soft ringing emitted from it. Someone answered, but they said nothing. Speaking in a clear and business like way, she said "Hello?"

SHERLOCK  
"who is this?" he tried to disguise his voice slightly.  
"You don't need to know."  
"No, but I'd like to..."  
"Well you're not going to." pause "so you were the boy my met in the woods then?"  
"I don't recall meeting you specifically..."  
"So sorry, I couldn't Tate myself away, had a very pressing appointment. But you're the one my men met in the woods?"  
"Yes." his pulse quickened.  
"So you would be very interested to know where I am, along with your little friend?" little friend. Last time he'd heard that, John had been huddled on the forest floor.  
"I would."  
"How about I give you a puzzle? You seemed to enjoy figuring out my password." excitement and adrenaline surged through him, a puzzle? A challenge! He tried not to let the excitement show on his voice,  
"that could work."  
"I bet you get bored." he didn't retort. "I suppose you're into the classics as I am?"  
"Very."  
"Try this on for size then, think." he scoffed,  
"You think I don't? I probably think a whole lot more than you."  
"Well then you shouldn't find this difficult, think about what you know, what I've told you. My letter."  
"So what about this puzzle then? Something new, a clue?"  
"You know everything you need to know to work it out, I expect to be seeing you rather soon, I can hardly wait."  
"So new information?"  
"You think I want to be caught!?"  
"That's the frailty of genius," he muttered, "it needs an audience."  
"Ah, I see, so you're a genius too?"  
"Yes, not that you needed to be to get access to those files,"  
"Well then I'm sure you'll have no issues meeting out appointment."  
"The pleasure will be all mine." but he couldn't pretend he wasn't a little afraid. He hung up and sat still for a minute, considering, before vaulting over the bed and down the stairs.

JOHN  
He always took an evening walk in autumn; he had always been with his father. The warm African evenings were his favourite type of day. The boarding house curfew was nine o'clock, so it was half past six that John pushed open the door. And jumped about three foot into the air. Sherlock was sitting on the third stone step outside the door. His coat collar turned up against the cool evening air, the breeze ruffling his black curly hair.  
"Sherlock," he turned, the glowing evening light making shadows on his high cheekbones. "What are you doing here?"  
"She called me, John." he felt a twinge of jealousy,  
"What? Molly?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion,  
"What? No! The kidnapper!" oh, John blushed.  
"Oh, right." pause "Wait, What?! You mean, what?!"  
"Yes. She phoned me."  
"What did she say?!"  
"She said I have all the information necessary to find her." that really didn't make him any less confused.  
"And do you?" Sherlock didn't answer for a while, picking up a small pebble from the gravel path and turning it over in his hand. When he spoke his voice was very quiet,  
"Yes. But I don't know where she is!" he stood up, shouting the last words and throwing the pebble to the ground in frustration.  
"Sherlock, calm down, we can figure this out..." but it was a bit late for calming words, Sherlock was muttering feverishly under his breath,  
"Letter, Austen, seal, fountain pen, memory stick..." he sounded almost insane, eyes shit tight, wringing his hands.  
"Sherlock, Sherlock stop it..."  
"Caroline, parchment paper..." he has stood up, pacing furiously up and down, up and down.  
"Sherlock please, don't do that..."  
"God! Why can't I figure this out?! Phone call, Glaswegian, agh!"  
"Sherlock!" John's hand shot out and grabbed his friend's arm, his short fingers wrapped round the taller boy's bicep. Sherlock fell silent and turned round sharply. "Don't..." they stood, staring at each other for a full minuet, john felt as though he was being X-rayed. Then, Sherlock's hand slipped into his, cold skin against his trembling fingers.  
"I, I thought we agreed not, not to do that..." John stammered.  
"I have a photographic memory capable of holding twice as much information as the average human mind and I don't recall agreeing to any such thing," Sherlock smiled.  
"What, what I'd someone sees," John raised his warm, grey eyes to heavy sash windows. But Sherlock just smiled again and turned, running towards the heavy iron gates, long fingers still clasped around John's hand. Jerked of the top step, arm almost wrenched put of his socket, he started running too.


	14. CK - Chapter 14

Chapter 14

SHERLOCK  
He wasn't even completely sure where they were going, just that he needed to know what was going on and he needed the pounding of his feet on the pavement drumming through his ears and he needed to have John by his side. He had an idea but he wasn't sure, he needed to see the note again, and he wasn't sure they were going to let him...  
"Sherlock," John called from behind him "where are we even going?"  
"I don't know."  
"Can we stop, just for a minuet?" Sherlock slowed to a walk, John stopped completely, bending down to catch his breath. Their hands slipping apart. "Sherlock, what are we doing?" he wasn't completely sure if John meant the running or the holding hands...  
"We're going to look at that ransom note again and figure out where this woman is..."  
"No, I meant..."  
"Oh." they stood in silence, John still breathing heavily. It was eventually he who broke the silence,  
"I haven't run like that since, well..."  
"How old were you?"  
"Fourteen."  
"And you didn't go to school for another two years?!"  
"I had a therapist Sherlock, do you really think I could have coped in a normal school?!" he raised his eyebrows, nodding slightly,  
"True." pause "well, um, got your breath back?"  
"Yeah..."  
"Right, let's go look at that ransom note."  
"it's Sunday night, I have to be back by nine Sherlock..."  
"But this is way more fun," John was still torn, glancing back down the road to the gates, "please?" Sherlock had only realised how much he hated going alone when he had someone to go with. John sighed exasperatedly,  
"Fine, but we have to be back by nine, Sherlock or I'll be in so much trouble."  
"trouble's fun!"  
"Not when it involves matron McKenzie" Smiling widely, no one else ever made him smile like that, Sherlock started running again.

JOHN  
The look on the receptionist's face when they entered was one of pure shock and vexation. He clearly thought he'd got rid of them.  
"What do you want?"  
"I need to see sergeant Barnard."  
"Again?!" he asked incredulously. John still wasn't completely comfortable in the station, his hand twitched unconsciously At that moment, Barnard's tall frame appeared in the door way. He groaned loudly and marched straight up to them.  
"What the hell..."  
"I need to see the note." Sherlock had also advanced, confident (some would say cocky) even though the sergeant was nearly half a foot taller than him.  
"What?! Mr Holmes that is police evidence! It's seven o'clock, we're just about to close!"  
"She called me." that shut him up. An audible hush fell over the building, no one speaking.  
"What?"  
"The kidnapper, she called my phone." an even longer pause followed.  
"Get in here," Barnard gestured to his glass office doorway. Sherlock strode through like it was his own home, but John hung back, unsure.  
"You too." the sergeant jerked his head.

Once inside, he pulled the blinds before sitting down at the desk.  
"Now," he began "what exactly are you trying to tell me."  
"I got a phone call from an unknown number, when I answered it it was a women."  
"The kidnapper?"  
"Yes. She said I had all the information I needed to find them,"  
"Them?" Barnard interrupted.  
"Obviously. But I need to see that letter again."  
"Why?" that was the question John had been burning to ask too...  
"I think she's left handed." a short silence, then Barnard started to laugh.  
"And that matters why?" he chuckled, then, seeing the serious look on Sherlock's face, stopped.  
"It's an essential piece of information, and we need all the information we can get."that stumped him.  
"True. Alright, Holmes, give me anything you've got."  
"Ok, we know she's left handed, uses good stationary, has a taste for fine literature and, violence." He cought John's eye and smiled slightly.  
"Alright, so where is she?" there was another, very long pause.  
"Sherlock?" John waved a hand in front of his pale face, "Sherlock, you with us?" clearly not because sherlock had closed his eyes again and placed his long fingers against his temples.

SHERLOCK  
Ink, stationary, parchment, wax, dust, Caroline, courage always rises... Where, where where!  
"Ugh!" he shouted out loud. He could figure this out he knew it, he knew every street and building on the whole area, it couldn't be that... Oh. Wow. Genius, simple clear genius. He had to go. Tonight.  
"Ink, long borne ink," he muttered,  
"What was that?"  
"Nothing, sorry, must dash..." Standing up, he saw the looks of confusion on their faces and walked to the door.  
"Hang on!" but he had already pushed it open and was halfway across the reception area by the time Barnard had stood up too.  
"Sherlock!" John was running after him, "what? Where are you going?" once they were out on the dark street corner, Sherlock answered,  
"You better be getting back, it's nearly eight..."  
"What's going on Sherlock? You said you had no idea and then..."  
"Nothing, my parents will worry."  
"Don't try and lie to me, I know something's up." that stopped him, John was right, he didn't want to lie to him. But he couldn't tell him the truth either, for a genius he found it surprising difficult to make the decision. In the end, he slowly reached out and touched his friend's wrist, smiling slightly.  
"Goodnight John."

He was lucky she had chosen a close location, it was only a twenty minuet cycle. He hated cycling, but it was the only option. Of course, he could driven of he'd told them, but he wanted to meet her face to face. It was a long wait, his mother and father usually stayed up late, watching TV, arguing. They argued a lot. Eventually accepting that he wasn't going anywhere for a while, he pulled put his phone.

_Expect me at midnight._

It wasn't long before he got a reply,

_You know where?_

_Of course._

•••••••••••••••••

At exactly half past eleven, Sherlock pulled open the front door. Having successfully negotiated the upstairs landing and stairs, he just had to grab Mycroft's bike and go. Shivering, he wrapped his coat closer around himself and turned up the collar.

JOHN  
There was something up, he knew there was. He couldn't sleep knowing that Sherlock was planning something reckless. Without him. The last time he hadn't bothered to explain to John, they'd both ended up on deep trouble. Long borne ink, what did that mean? It defiantly wasn't good.  
Picking up his phone, he scrolled through all their old messages having received no new ones, worrying. When the clock struck half past eleven and he was still to restless to sleep, he sent a text:

_What's going on?_  
_JW_

And waited.

SHERLOCK  
The car park was ghostly, nothing stirring except a few autumn leaves and empty crisp packets. No cars, no people leaving after a hard day of work, no smoke pluming from the tall brick chimney. Hemingway and West ink factory had been thus way for years, but no had cared enough to knock it down, although his mother was ways complaining about what an eye sore it was. Nobody called it by its real name, they called it long borne, because it had been. Back when it was on use, everyone had wanted rid of it, now it was abandoned and everyone hated how its ghostly exoskeleton just sat there amongst the 'natural beauty' of the landscape. It was the perfect place to hide. Long borne, he smiled to himself, it had been easy in the end, long borne. His mother's stupid nickname that had become local idiolect. Obvious.

* * *

**Hello again! I hope you're still enjoying my story, please R&R. Also, sorry for all the Austen clues, don't worry the next case will be a lot better...**


	15. CK - Chapter 15

Chapter 15

SHERLOCK  
His heart rate increased steadily as he dismounted and pushed Mycroft's bike towards the heavy doors. Laying it to one side with upmost disregard, he studied the entrance. Two large oak doors and one small side gate of rusting iron, which he headed towards. Pushing it open, it was very weak and almost fell off the hinges, he pulled out his phone. Only one new message, John. Ignoring it, he pressed on into the building. The ancient brickwork was crumbling, all around him were great mounds of terracotta where the walls had collapsed or been pulled down. Cobwebs strung from every vertex, clouding his vision. Every now and then the echoing sound of a regular dripping broke the silence. There was a leak. He had a torch, but he didn't use it, he didn't want to been seen. It was colder than he had expected and he was strangely lonely. Shrugging it off, be pulled hos scarf tighter around his pale throat and put a hand out if front of him to pull down the cobwebs. He soon reached a fork in the corridors, it was obvious which way he had to go. He veered to the left. A sudden vibration in his pocket told him he had another message.

I'm waiting.

JOHN  
When he got no response, John started to seriously worry, so much so that, incapable of sleep, he fling off the covers and grabbed a jacket. Pulling a pair of jeans over his red boxers and yanking on converse, he decided to give it one more try.

Please, Sherlock, what's going on?!  
JW

He held his breath as he tiptoed down the corridor. He didn't expect any reply.

The police station was closed when he got there. The night air unforgiving and cold against his face, he was starring to wish he'd brought a scarf. The only light source was a feeble street lamp, grey clouds blocked the stars from view. Starting to panic, he reached for his mobile with fumbling fingers and hit speed dial.  
"Come on, pick up, please pick up..." he muttered feverishly. Sherlock didn't answer, it went straight to voice mail ('you've attempted and failed to reach Sherlock Holmes, I'm obviously doing something more interesting than answering my phone currently so leave a message if its important, and don't be boring.') "damn it!" there was nothing else for it, he entered the numbers 999.

SHERLOCK  
Pulse quickening, he slowed to a walk. He'd found it. Behind this door was the criminal. He had climbed down three flights of stairs and two ladders, and now he was here. He almost wished John was here to see it, but he knew he'd made the right choice, he couldn't have out his only friend in danger. Not again.

When he opened the door he almost gasped. There was only one thing in the room, a chair, right in the centre under a loose hanging lightbulb. It was murky, dusty and pitch black, the only source of light the thin sliver of silver moonlight that poked its way through the tiny window near he ceiling. A slow drip of dirty water from above was the only noise, the basement was quite far underground.

"Evening," he called out into the darkness.  
"Darling, I thought you'd never make it." he whipped round. Walking towards him on a pair of red sued stilettos was the kidnapper. Auben Ringlets cascading down her neck and over her left shoulder, long, red, claw like nails that perfectly echoed her lipstick. She wore a flowing blouse that reflected the little light tucked into a tight pencil skirt. "Well, I certain didn't anticipate you being quite so handsome," she purred, stopping in front of him, one hand on her waist, the other at her mouth, playfully sucking on her index finger.  
"And I didn't anticipate you choosing somewhere quite so run down and obvious, but here we are."  
"Obvious was it?"  
"Long borne? When you consider my mothers appalling nickname, then Yes, obvious."  
"'Longborn estate was entailed away from the female line', ironic that I should use it now... Well, if you want to play genius I'll be happy to oblige. Do take a seat," she gestured to the chair.  
"I'd rather not."  
"Alright then, shall we begin? How much do you think you're worth?"

JOHN  
All he could here was the blazing sirens and Barnard shouting orders. He sat, confused and worried in the back of the police car, an orange blanket draped around his shoulders. Tiered of being badgered by endless questions, but not wanting them to search without his guidance.  
"What was it he said? He said something in the office, did you hear?" Barnard had yanked kpen fe door and was leaning over him, his face harried, "what did he say!?"  
"I, I, long borne ink, I think, I don't know..." he hated it, the questions, the panic, the noise. He had the childish urge to stick his fingers in his ears and rock himself backwards and forwards. Make it all go away.  
"Of course, long borne, ink, that's genius, clever bastard!" pulling his head out of the door and slamming it shut, the sergeant clambered into the front seat. "Hemingway and west, quick!"

SHERLOCK  
"Sorry?" he was confused.  
"How much money, in pounds sterling, would you value yourself at?" still a little puzzled, Sherlock tried not to show what he was thinking and be calm.  
"I can tell you the exact cost of a human body in terms of skin and organs is …... ."  
"No. I mean in terms of morality, how much would someone pay to save your life?" now he understood what she was saying, but he still didn't understand why she was saying it.  
"I don't understand..." she smirked  
"not much of a genius now are we. I grow tired of waiting, Mr Arthur." a soft click behind him and he felt the penny clunk into place.  
"Sit down," the rough voice of the Glaswegian from the wood and a prod with the barrel of a gun in the small of his back. Reluctantly, with as much attitude as possible, he slumped into the chair.  
"Now, I'll ask you once more Mr, um," she stared pointedly at him.  
"Watson," he responded without hesitation.  
"Mr Watson, how much money have your parents got and how much would they be prepared to pay for you?"  
"Not much and, even less."  
"Now, now, don't put yourself down. How about we meet halfway and say £600,00? Yes, that will do nicely. I'll start writing to them in a minute"

JOHN  
The car pulled up outside an abandoned factory, it looked decades old, desolate. They had turned the lights and sirens off half a mile away so as not to be seen or heard. As soon as the engine was cut, Barnard and half a dozen other officers jumped put of the cars and sprinted towards the iron gates. John clambered out of the car and tried to follow them, but he was stopped by the same young police woman who had tried to stop Sherlock at the crime scene the other day.  
"You wait here."  
"No," he tried to push past her, shrugging the blanket off himself, "no, please I have to get inside."  
"You're in shock honey, you have to stay, it's not safe." he didn't appreciate her patronising tone, and it was this that spurred him on. Pushing her arm out of his way, he raced of after the other officers.  
"Stop!" she yelled after him, but e didn't stop. His heart was in his mouth but he kept running, he had to get to Sherlock before it was too late...

SHERLOCK  
"I still don't fully understand, I thought you wanted to talk..."  
"And that, Mr Watson, that is your fundamental downfall. You're so bored of spending time with ordinary, boring people that when you finally meet someone of equal," she giggled "if not superior intelligence, you assume that they too are bored of society and their only wish is to converse with you." Sherlock felt the colour rising in his cheeks as she spoke, he hated to admit it, but she was right. He had longed for the day when he would meet his intellectual equal, a challenge, someone who got bored too. "When maybe, they just want to use their superiority to make some easy money through kidnap." She smiled cruelly, giving him an almost pitying look. Sherlock didn't speak; he felt angry, almost betrayed. He hadn't told anyone where he was, what was going to happen now? His imagination began to run riot as he sat there in the darkness, hoping. What he wanted more than anything right now was for John o bust through the door and hold him and make sure he never felt this vulnerable again. She had been wrong about ordinary people; sometimes, someone you think is just like everyone else, boring and unoriginal, can turn out to be the most unique, brilliant, extraordinary person. "You made a mistake coming here tonight. After the incident in the woods I knew you would try again," she was advancing on him now, her long nails extended like cat claws, "I knew I could lure you here, i even chose somewhere i could be sure you'd find, get you alone and then I'd lose an enemy and gain a victim all at once. Talk about two birds..." stopping in front of him, she reached down and caressed his face with her long boney finger, stroking along the lined of his cheekbones. "I could cut myself slapping that face," she murmured.  
"I didn't come alone you know," his heart was pounding, he knew his only way pit was to lie through his teeth. "they'll find you, I told the police, I'm not stupid."  
"No, Mr Watson, I think you're far to clever to have gone to the police..."

JOHN  
He caught up with them at a fork in the half demolished corridors. Barnard was whispering orders "Aright, two go left, two right and..."  
"No, wait!" the sergeant turned round at the sound of John's voice,  
"what the bloody hell are you..."  
"Left, go left!"  
"What? Why?!"  
"She's left handed, Sherlock said it was important..."  
"We have to get to her ASAP and the quickest way to do the is to spread out..."  
"left, I know it is, please, trust me?" the tall man shook his head,  
"I can't put lives in danger because you just know, three to the left with me, the rest of you, spread out." Barnard and three other officers started jogging quietly down the corridor, but not before he had said "stay here boy, it's not safe." John waited until they were almost out of sight, then trotted after them.

SHERLOCK  
His hatred at this moment was paramount, bubbling fury that she had deceived him this threatened to overflow. His capture still stood in front of him, long nails tapping at her phone screen.  
"Seeing as my previous method of good old fashioned letter writing didn't get me anywhere, it looks as though I am resolved to follow public fashions and phone your parents. You know, Mr Taverna's parents still haven't bothered to respond to my message, I believe they are waiting for the police to sort it all put for them..."  
"And we both know that's never going to work."  
"Indeed, would you be so kind as to give me the number?" Sherlock's brain was whirring, how to get out of this one... A sharp prod on the back of the head with the barrel of a mouser 2-89 brought him back to his situation. "As soon as possible, I'm a busy girl," she winked mockingly. Without hesitation, he gave her johns mobile number and held his breath as she dialed Holding the phone to her ear, her expression remained stony and cold. Sherlock's heart was in his mouth, beating solidly against his Adams apple. Would he pick up? What would she say? What would she do when she realised it was the wrong number? The tension was palpable, the room silent apart from his heavy breathing and the quiet ringing.

A piano riff sounded from outside the door. Hushed voices cursed and he heard scrabbling on the dusty concrete. The woman turned quick as a whip lash, staring around for the source of the noise. Sherlock's took his chance and, grabbing the end of the gun, head butted the man behind hmm in the chest. The door broke down off its hinges, revealing sergeant Barnard, three young police officers and his only friend.

JOHN  
"Don't move a muscle," Barnard's voice rang out over the movement of the woman and Sherlock knocking her henchman to the floor. Her head spin slowly round to check the damage, the barrel of the small pistol the has once been in the hands of everyone's favorite Glaswegian was now pointed at her head. "Oh, Mr Watson," what? John turned round in confusion, leaning to one side trying to catch Sherlock's eye. Why had he used his name? "I must admit I'm a tiny bit disappointed..."  
"I didn't know try we're here!" he was almost defensive.  
"Yeah," Barnard spoke up, "we had to track you down here to save your neck! I'll deal with you later!"  
"I thought you genuinely were clever enough not to her them involved..." She smiled maliciously as she turned back to the officers at the door. "I suppose you want to know where the other boy is? Well I'm certainly not going to be the one to give the game away."  
"Upstairs," Sherlock's low voice interrupted hers, he smiled winningly, "what? You thought I wouldn't notice were your body guard came from? The swinging lightbulb?"  
"Very good," she winked again, "lets get a move on then sergeant, I'm a busy girl."

Once they were out of the building, ad Barnard had reluctantly agreed to send them back to their respective dwellings instead of to the station, John started the questions.  
"Why did you use my name?"  
"Well I wasn't going to use mine!"  
"Why did you even go Sherlock?"  
"Hey, I caught her didn't I?"  
"I'd say she more caught you!" pause, "how did you know where she was?"  
"They call the factory a long borne eye sore. Longborn is the Bennett's estate. Austen, John. Yet more Austen. She is a big fan..." they fell silent. All John could hear was the blaring of sirens and the slamming of car doors; he reached out slowly from underneath the orange blanket to take his friend's hand. "I'm glad you're ok. I was scared."  
"Why?"  
"I thought she might hurt you..."  
"I'm fine, I'm not even in shock." Sherlock's bony fingers wrapped around his, enveloped in the fuzzy fold of orange materiel, he had rejected his own blanket. Their shoulders brushed slightly, they sat huddled on the back seat of the police car.  
"Why didn't you tell anyone where you were? You weren't answering my calls..."  
"I wanted to come alone..."  
"Yeah and look were that got you!" he still felt angry that he had been abandoned in the boarding house. "Sherlock, promise me you won't go of on your own again..."  
"I wanted to go alone so there was no chance she could hurt you."  
"But, no one had any clue where you were! We only just found in time!" Sherlock didn't respond. "Why did she call me?"  
"I gave her your number..."  
"Why?"  
"She wanted my parents', I didn't want to give it to her. Yours is the only other number I have memorised."  
"Really?" John couldn't help blush, he was flattered.  
"Would I really use up valuable space in my hard drive with anyone else's?" he was leaning closer, John placed two fingers on his pale lips,  
"Sherlock..."  
"What? You did..." That was true enough, and John couldn't deny he was particularly against it happening again. But hearing approaching footsteps behind them, he whispered "later..." and turned to see sergeant Barnard standing over them.  
"Remember, twelve o'clock tomorrow, at the station, I'm not done with you yet." he slammed the door with a heavy hand and knocked on the roof. The short blonde policewomen who had tried to restrain him slipped into the driving seat and asked  
"where first?" The two boys looked at each other, their hands slipping deeper into the materiel, out of sight, before they answered in unison, each naming the others place of residence;  
"St Benedict's boarding house."  
"7 Greenwich road."


	16. The Gardener's Earring - Chapter 1

Chapter 1  
SHERLOCK  
Monday was as predictably dull as it always was, with one exception. Sherlock got to school early for the first time since May second 2010. (They'd complained about his time keeping at the other schools too) He waited outside the boarding house. It was warmer today, but there were still definite hints that winter was fast approaching. The crisp leaves had almost all dropped to the slightly frosty ground and, in the shade, the wind bit at your throat.  
John opened the black door at exactly twenty five past eight, shivering slightly as he didn't have a coat. He wore both his pale grey blazer and burgundy v neck school jumper, but he still rubbed his hands together to warm them. He smiled warmly when he spotted Sherlock standing there.

"Morning, didn't expect to see you here," he spoke as though nothing put of the ordinary had happened at the weekend.  
"I do go to school here..."  
"You know what I meant."  
"How are you?"  
"Fine, you?"

Sherlock shrugged submissively "Bored."  
"Bored?! Unless I'm mistaken you caught a kidnapper last night?"  
"That was yesterday!" John shook his head disbelieving.  
"Well then, I'm sorry but I doubt double history is going to do anything for you." They started walking towards the red brick building.  
"You might be able to help there..." he extended his hand, fingers reaching, stretching to make contact with his friend's. Sherlock was still confused, he had never been involved with anyone in anyway, the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend was Molly Hooper. His feelings for john were very perplexing to him, there did seem to be a logical answer, but of course this was a two sided puzzle. He was used to mystery at one end his of his cases, two was unmanageable. fingers were still outstretched on the chilly air. "John?"  
"Not here..."  
"Why?"  
"Not in public..."  
"Why?"  
"People will talk..."  
"They do little else John."  
"Can we talk about this later?"  
"Why?" they were almost at the main building now.  
"Sherlock please? Later."

JOHN  
Sherlock reluctantly stowed his hand back into his long coat pocket, why didn't he understand? He had no clue about social conventions and acceptable actions. In some ways, it was good, new, exciting. It meant they could skip straight to the taw emotions, without obsessing over whether or not they were 'at that stage'. John couldn't deny that he too was longing to link their fingers. But, they were just friends... They had not specified that they were anything more... And yet, just friends didn't debate holding hands on school grounds, just friends didn't huddle together, fingers intertwined, in the back of police cars, just friends didn't kiss in the dark secluded corners of the wood at night...

An unexpected voice from behind them was brought him back from his thoughts,  
"Oi, homo!" he groaned, clenching his fists and bringing his shoulders up in self-defence, bracing himself. "Don't you walk away from me, freak!" he bent his head and kept walking, quickening his pace. He could feel Sherlock's side against his shoulder, his strides lengthening, his breathing heavy, both boys desperate to get inside. "Hey!" a large pair of hands grabbed his satchel, pulling it off him and throwing it to the next boy.  
"Hey!" John shouted in protest, turning round and trying to grab back his property.  
"Didn't daddy ever tell you not to walk away when people are talking to you?" jeered Dimmock, catching the leather bag with a casual flick of his wrist. That hit a nerve. Anger swelled to the surface and bubbles over, it had two years of therapy and home-schooling to get him to this point after his father's death. John jumped, trying desperately to reach the dark canvass strap. He knew that was exactly what dimmock wanted, but he didn't care. The pressure of Sherlock's body no longer at his side, he would have to fight this battle alone.  
"Give it back dimmock or I swear..."  
"What? You're gonnna hit me again? Bring it homo I'd kill you one to one."  
"I'll, I'll..." he didn't even know what he was threatening. Dimmock threw the bag high over his head to one of the other huge boys the bow surrounded him. Jeers and laughter and cat calls filled his ears, a crowd had gathered.  
"What even is this anyway?" one of his other tormentors yelled over the babble, "a man purse?!" Dimmock and the rest fell about laughing. John felt frustration and anger and irritation threatening to show, don't cry, don't cry. Where was Sherlock, John had been there for him in his hour of need. He tried desperately to catch a glimpse of the dark curls over the crowd.

As if reading his mid, the bully called "Where's your freaky boyfriend now?!" lobbing his bag higher over his head; a few pencils and an eraser dropped to the floor.  
"He's not..." but his small voice was drowned out by the laughter and whoops of the crowd. He wasn't even sure what he was denying... There! Out of the corner of his eye he spotted him, pushing through the waves of students, battling to get through. The loud clanging of the bell sounded over the yard and the crowd began to diffuse away into the building.  
"Saved by the bell gay boy," Dimmock threw the bag down on the dusty gravel. "See you around," high five-ing his huge friends, he swaggered away, laughing loudly. John snatched up his bag, blinking back salty tears, willing himself to hold it together.  
"John," Sherlock approached him from behind, holding the pencils that had fallen from the front pocket.  
"Don't bother."  
"What? What did I do, I was trying to..."  
"Whatever, I'm fine, forget it..." falling silent, the two boys walked together in through the doors.

SHERLOCK  
Once inside, they met Molly Hooper. She had followed from the crowd outside; Sherlock sighed exasperatedly as she approached.  
"John, I saw what happened, are you alright?" but she wasn't looking at John, Sherlock smiled slightly as her dark eyes flicked up to meet his, purely because he knew from experience that she would blush and look away if he did. It was quicker.  
"I'm fine, Molly. Wait, you were in that crowd?" His voice had gone from quiet and pathetic to angry in a few syllables. Did he not understand that people didn't confront dimmock? Feeling the still sensitive tissue around his eye, Sherlock was reminded how he has learnt that fact the hard way...  
"Yes, but..."  
"You didn't do anything!"  
"John, I couldn't!" Molly was desperate, turning to Sherlock for help.  
"I did!" Third of September, John had punched dimmock in the face, Sherlock felt a surge of warmth as he remembered that event... Seeing Molly's panic however, he interrupted.  
"John, that was amazing, but you can't expect..."  
"Oh yeah, I forgot, no one cares about me, Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends."  
"That's not what I..." but it was too late, John was already storming away; and Molly, seeing she was left alone with him, scuttled of to her lesson too. Why didn't he understand! Scuffing the wooden floor in frustration, Sherlock stomped over to the door and threw it open. Mr Morris' face was almost blue with fury; that made two people who were angry at him...

He waited for John outside the classroom at lunchtime, but he didn't make a reappearance. Maybe he'd one back to the boarding house for lunch? There were too many maybes in relationships for Sherlock's liking.

JOHN  
It was only a letter opener, but it did sufficient damage. He wasn't trying to kill himself it anything, he just wanted to hurt. Tears ran down his cheeks and splashed into the porcelain basin, mixing with the blood. No one was ever in the boarding house in lunch hour, and the sink was separate to the rest of the bathroom. He was alone. There were already scars running up his left arm, thin white lines, just like the thin white lies. 'I'm fine', 'I'm happy here', 'we're just friends'... They'd tried to stop him, Harry, his mother, Katherine. The doctor said he needed to find a coping strategy... The blood tricked through the wrinkles and lines at his wrist, scarlet streams interweaving and joining together. He had resigned himself at the start of the year that it would be different, that not everyone would be a friend, but this was so much worse than he had imagined. Even his only friend hadn't thought it worth his effort to help him. Friend... His shoulders shook with sobs of confusion, anger, frustration. They were clearly more than friends, but he couldn't come to terms with it. He had never known a feeling like this, even when he'd dated girls in the past, Sherlock was no German tourist or daughter of a British soldier. This was completely different and he couldn't handle it. There was no way his mother could come to terms with it. She would never approve, he knew he would be dead to her. He didn't know what he wanted, it was too much to cope with, and this, this was his coping strategy: pain.


	17. GE - Chapter 2

Chapter two  
SHERLOCK  
Bored, bored, bored. The kidnap case had been interesting enough, but now he had nothing, nothing to satisfy how need to think.

He resigned himself to the fact that John wasn't going to make a reappearance and sat, alone, in the old classroom. Waiting. He looked up when Molly entered, hoping it was John. She was clearly nervous, her shaking hands betraying her feelings. Turning away in disappointment, he said  
"Anything?"  
"No."  
"God!" Sherlock slammed his palms down on the table on frustration.

It was a while until Molly spoke again; he almost forgot she was there, "what about John?"  
"What about him?"  
"Well, shouldn't you, I don't know, talk to him?"  
"He doesn't want to. He said later."  
"But..." Sherlock gave her a look that made her cut the sentence short. "Anyway, nothing. Not even a robbery."  
"I hate this town."

John did show up for Latin, red eyed and slumped, so when the bell sounded, Sherlock jumped up and beat him to the door.  
"Sherlock, you're in the wa..."  
"John, I tried to stop them, I really did..."  
"Whatever, can we just forget it?"  
"Of course." relived, the taller of the two boys stepped out of the door frame to allow the rest of the confused class to pass. "John,"  
"Mmmm?"  
"You said we were going to talk..."  
"Later."  
"It is later! You said later before!" he sounded like a whiney kid in a sweet shop.  
"Fine, shall I come back to yours?"  
"no." there was no way that Sherlock was bringing his friend back to a house of interfering siblings and argumentative parents.  
"Umm, ok. Come back to mine?"  
"Yes."

JOHN  
((Walls - All time low. Can you sense my music taste coming through?!))

Preying that he hadn't left his pyjamas, or blood-stained towels, all over the floor, (the scarlet stained letter opener was in the draw of the bedside table) John pushed open the door. His fingers where shaking, he didn't know why. The small room was, mercifully, reasonably clean. A few text books littered the bed and his shoes lay abandoned by the door.  
"Welcome to my crib," he said nervously, watching Sherlock's face.  
"Your what?"  
"Nothing." he blushed. They were quiet for a few moments, Sherlock say down on the lumpy mattress, placing his fingertips together. John eventually broke the silence,  
"What was it you wanted to say?"  
"You were the one who said you wanted to talk."  
"Was I?"  
"Yes."  
"Oh." gulping, he sat down next to Sherlock and looked down at his back shoes.  
"John," raising his sandy head at the sound of his friend's voice, John saw the undeniable discomfort on his pale face. "I am not a person who is easily confused. There are not many things I don't understand. But, one of them is, you..." John blushed even deeper, flattered, but scared. "I have never before understood the need of humans to find other humans, but you, I enjoy spending time with you and I, you make me happy." John was shocked to hear his friend struggling to get the words out, he was clearly unsure about what to say. "I also don't know anything about social standards and expectations, they're not important. But you, you do, I think. But something I do know is that I'm happy when I'm with you, and I'm happy when you're close to me, and, and I'm..." he stopped as John reached up, winding his short fingers into Sherlock's dark curls. "What are you doing?"  
"Nothing... You were saying?" but Sherlock didn't continue. He slipped his white fingers into John's other hand and leaned closer. John could feel his heartbeat, hear it flooding his eardrums, his whole world vibrating like an opera singer's final note. Their foreheads were pressed together now; the soft curls of his friend tickling his brow.  
"I was saying, I'm happy, now. But this is something I'm still unclear on, what do you want?" to John, this was a question he couldn't answer with words. His hand still tangled in Sherlock's hair, he pulled the taller boy closer and pressed their lips together. It felt almost as though he were floating, flying. He had been waiting for this moment forever. Since the events in the forest, he had suffered in silence, confused and befuddled and upset and ecstatic all at once. He'd always thought that whole 'seeing fireworks' thing was a load of crap, but now he understood that he'd just been kissing the wrong people. The bright colours and loud bangs filled the onside of his eyes. He opened his mouth slightly, but Sherlock had pulled away.  
"What are you doing?"  
"You just said, you're happy?"  
"I am, but I don't..." John chuckled, their faces were still only inches apart, Sherlock's perfect, chiselled features filling his vision. he was glad he had locked the door behind them.  
"You're allowed to open your mouth you know."  
"You are? Interesting."  
"I'm interesting?" a warm, pleasurable feeling started spreading from his cheeks all the way down to his toes.  
"Of course," he leaned even closer, their nose tips touching. A sudden doubt crept across his mind...  
"Sherlock..."  
"But, you did..."  
"I know, but before we, we need to define this."  
"Why?"  
"Because," how do you explain relationships to someone who's never even had a friend? "It means we, know what, you know?!" Sherlock shook his head, still not clear. "It sets boundaries, what we say to people if they ask. I don't know..."  
"Why do we need a definition?"  
"We just do." were they dating? Were they together? It was so confusing. What if they broke up? Could they break up of they weren't together?  
"Can't we just..."  
"Not tell anyone?" he was hoping this would be a mutual conclusion.  
"What about our parents? Molly?" John scoffed,  
"I can't tell my mum about this!"  
"Why?"  
"Well, she... she's a fundamental Christian."  
"So?"  
"Well, you know. In the bible it says, she thinks..."  
"That god disapproves of homosexuality."  
"Yeah..."

SHERLOCK  
"And consequently she would disapprove of you being gay."  
"I'm not..."  
"What?" Sherlock laughed slightly in disbelief, pulling back so he could see his friend's whole face. "Um, we were just discussing the boundaries of a relationship. You kissed me," John was looking down at the threadbare blanket, biting his lip. "Correct me if I'm wrong but is that not generally considered a homosexual relationship? Last time I checked, I was a male, and unless you have a very big secret you are too..."  
"Yeah, but..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "ok, we won't discuss it." He could see the lines of worry in the round face, the begging nature in the warm grey eyes.  
"Thank you." he leaned closer once more, intertwining his fingers with those of his... friend? Definitions where boring.

Later that night, when he was sure that Mycroft had gone to bed and his parents had finally stopped shouting (it had been worse tonight, they'd been at it for over an hour, loud smashes and thuds periodically punctuating the raised voices), Sherlock reached for his phone and texted John, hoping against hope that he was still up.

So, we're not telling anyone?  
SH

It didn't take long to get a response,

Sherlock, You woke me up!  
JW

Not important. My question...  
SH

No I wasn't planning to...  
JW

Sherlock had barely read this message when another followed,

What was it you said about telling Molly?  
J

They had progressed to single letters.

Nothing, I was merely naming examples of people whom we could tell of we wanted to.  
S

Ok :)  
J

I don't understand the colon, right parenthesis...  
S

It's a smiley face Sherlock...  
J

Oh. I still don't really comprehend...  
S

If it's confusing you, I won't do it again.  
J

Please don't.  
S

I'm still bored  
S

That's a bit of an insult on my kissing prowess!  
J

I wasn't bored before, but now I haven't got you to worry over and the kidnapper women has a court date there's nothing to occupy my mind.  
S

That was yesterday...  
J

Wait, you were worrying over me?  
J

Not important, what's important is that we find the next one  
S

Next one?! You mean that wasn't a one of?!  
J

No  
S

Why was that such a surprise to him?

You mean trying desperately to track you down in an abandoned factory or being held at gun point in the forest is just your average weekend?  
J

I try to find as much to occupy my thoughts as possible. Solving crimes keeps my brain exercised.  
S

Right... Well, I'm going to try and sleep now. Night  
J

Good night.  
S

Sherlock turned off his mobile and rolled over, wrapping himself tighter in the duvet.


	18. GE - Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
JOHN  
They always put the radio on in the mornings, quiet murmuring through the cafeteria. He never normally listened, but today it caught his attention while he was halfway through his toast.  
"A brutal triple homicide has taken place in Leeds" what?! Johns head snapped up, straining his ears to try and catch the rest over the clatter of cutlery and clammed of voices. "The victims are a family of three, Sean and Janet Ridley and their seven year old daughter Meredith. Police preliminary investigations suggest this was premeditated murder and that the family were all killed by poison which they consumed orally, however we are still waiting for the results of a post mortem. There are no primary suspects at this time, but police are holding anyone who regularly worked for the family, including a babysitter, cleaner and gardener, as well as their close relatives who reside nearby..."  
"Sherlock," he muttered, abandoning his toast and springing for the door. Surely this counted as interesting?

SHERLOCK  
He decided to eat breakfast due to lack of anything interesting. Digestion slowed him down, so he always waited for theses boring gaps between cases to eat. The kitchen was comparatively smaller than the rest of the house, with only enough space for the few counters, an ancient oven and fridge, large steel sink and a round oak table. His mother was bustling from table to fridge, fussing over them, trying to find another loaf of bread. Small and weak, a desperate dormouse scrabbling amongst the harvest. She was of average intelligence, it was defiantly not from her side of the family that the boys got there quick minds and sense of curiosity. The only thing Sherlock shared with her were his curls, although hers were dirty blonde.  
"Where's father?" Mycroft asked, pouring himself tea. They'd moved his exam forward, the stress was obvious.  
"He left early for work," she had flinched at the sudden speech, sloping milk over the counter. Hastily, she searched around the sink for a cloth. Sherlock noticed that one again there was a small purple spread around her hazel eye. "What was it you wanted Sherlock?"  
"I made toast."  
"Oh, you already... sorry... I'm not really much help..." she collapsed into a chair. She looked exhausted and as she laid her arm on the table, he saw small bruises forming around her wrists; similar to the marks on johns from forest... Sherlock felt the rush of anger, he wasn't close to either of his parents, but he wasn't going to let his father get away with this again.  
"He hit you." it wasn't a question. He knew caring would not help her, but her frightened expression stirred a memory of the weekend, the panic on johns face when they had tackled him to the ground, he couldn't help but care. A bit. Her lined face grew pink and she hurriedly denied it.  
"No, no. We just argued, you boys don't need to worry..."  
"He hit you?!" Mycroft stood up, coming round the table to examine her eye. "Mother, are you alright?"  
"I'm fine boys, don't fuss. It's nothing." her voice elevated in pitch and quickened with each syllable.  
"No it's not, my god Mother, what where you arguing about?!"  
"Nothing Mycroft, you're going to be late..."  
"What did he say?!"  
"Nothing!" her voice was almost hysterical now.  
"Well, it clearly wasn't..." A sudden realisation, Sherlock interrupted his brother,  
"It was about us," again; it was a statement, not a question. But she shook her head, her eyes starting to swell up with tears. "No, just me then, typical." They always argued about him, Mycroft got off the hook because he had meet been expelled. "What did you say?"  
"Sherlock, you can't..." Mycroft was staring at him, willing him not to ask her, "She's in shock..."  
"What did you say?!"  
"Noth... I didn't... He..." she was shaking so hard she couldn't even speak.  
"Mum, don't, we'll talk about it later..." Mycroft desperately tried to console her, glaring at his brother.  
"What did you say?" Sherlock didn't shout this time, but he was still firm. He had to know.  
"He's just, he's, he worries about you." it sounded pleasant, normal. His father cared for his well fare, how nice. But it wasn't like that, Sherlock thought 'he worries about me, not for me, not that I'm in danger or not happy or anything. About me.'  
"He thinks there's something wrong with me..."  
"No, Sherlock, darling, he just..." but he was already storming out of the door, her words ringing in his ears.

JOHN  
He could see Sherlock was not in a good mood. The sight of his long figure storming straight towards you was actually quite unnerving.  
"What's up with you?" John asked nervously, hoping Sherlock wasn't going to start shouting.  
"Nothing." that threw him, the dark haired boy was usually either brutally honest or just fell silent and turned up his coat collar mysteriously.  
"Umm, ok..." this unusual turn of events actually made him forget about the potential case until they were almost at the door. "Oh yeah, Sherlock I think I might have found an interesting, um, case." at that his companion's dark head snapped up and he turned, renewed excitement kindling in his eyes.  
"I'm listening..."  
"That rarely happens..." John muttered.  
"What?"  
"Nothing. Um, triple homicide, in Leeds. Family of three, they suspect poison..." Sherlock had stopped right outside the door frame, casing a decent pile up behind him and a lot of swearing. "Sherlock..." John grabbed the cuff of his motionless friend's sleeve and tugged him forward. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice. "What have I said about standing in doorways?! You caused a pretty big pile up back there..." students flooded past them, a couple staring and most tutting and muttering. He was still staring into the distance, the artificial school light making his eyes appear almost golden, a sort of pale, soft yellow with moss green flecks and a rim of thunderstorm grey around the edge of the iris. His right eye cast in slight shadow because of his hair, waves of deepest chocolate falling over from the side parting. "Sherlock?"  
"I'm going to need more information."  
"Sorry?"  
"The case, I need data."  
"Right, well, we could go the library at break..." but the deep voice of the taller boy overlapped his,  
"Or now."  
"Now? But we have history..."  
"Ugh, boring."  
"We can't just, we have to..." John didn't really want truanting on his school record, nor did he want to face the wrath of Mr Morris. But the look on Sherlock's face was one that was difficult to argue with.

"Why couldn't we just have gone at break?" John asked, jogging slightly to keep up with Sherlock's long strides as they entered the library. He didn't answer. My god he could be frustrating sometimes... They headed over to the row of new shiny computers that the school had been fundraising for for a millennium. Sherlock spun the last plastic chair slightly as he sat down, leaving John to poke his head round a number of book shelves searching for another. When he returned, struggling to drag the chair behind him and looking completely graceless and undignified, he found Sherlock, still not logged on, sitting with his fingertips pressed together. "So, you're not using the computer?"  
"Hm? Oh, yes. Just waiting for the librarian to stop staring at me..."  
"Um, why?"  
"I lost permission to use these in the first week we had them."  
John couldn't help laughing, "How'd you manage that!?"  
"I tried to buy caesium online." he spoke as though this was completely normal and it was ridiculous to suggest otherwise.  
"Isn't that, like, three times as reactive as potassium? That could like, blow up a house!"  
"Not quite, but it would do sufficient damage." he turned to the dark blue screen. "So I need to use your account."  
John smiled, he couldn't help it, "if you can guess the password."  
"Child's play."

They were lucky; there was a recently updated article on the BBC homepage, the results of the post mortem we're in. It was indeed poison, alkali weed killer to be precise, which all the victims had consumed orally. The police seemed to be baffled, but John saw his friend's eyes lighting up in excitement as they darted over the article.  
"So," he asked, "what do you think?"  
"Well the logical conclusion would be the gardener given the weed killer, but that's far too obvious..."  
"So, you are taking the case?"  
"Of course. Don't know quite how we're going to Leeds and interview them..."  
"Sorry, what?!" John looked incredulously at Sherlock, "we're going to Leeds?!"  
"Well, we have to look in their house, talk to the relatives, the gardener..."  
"Sorry, we're going to try and get onto the crime scene?!"  
"Obviously," Sherlock seemed surprised at John's disbelief.  
"Obviously," John muttered, shaking his head slightly.

SHERLOCK  
He wasn't looking forward to getting home. He never did, but especially today. After what happened that morning, he never wanted to see his farther again. Marching purposely up the stone steps, Sherlock thrust his hand into his pocket for keys, but no cold metal presented itself.  
"Forgot your keys, little brother?" great, just what he needed to improve the mood, Mycroft.  
"Just open the door." but Mycroft just smirked,  
"What were you doing in the library?"  
"Nothing."  
"Well, it certainly wasn't history was it?"  
"Will you just open the door?"  
"I won't tell dad." the brothers locked their gaze, a silent battle of wills.  
"I was on a case."  
"Oh for god's sake!"  
"Look, I don't know about you but I'd quite like to get out of the cold..."  
Reluctantly, Mycroft pulled a small bunch of keys out of his pocket, "fine," he muttered. "But Sherlock," he stuck his arm out, stopping the younger boy from passing. "Don't."  
"Don't what?!"  
"You know what. Mother?" oh, that. Shrugging impatiently, Sherlock ignored him and pushed through the door. "Sherlock! If dads drunk again you can't just, just leave it." he could hear the desperation in his brother's voice. He wanted to avoid hostilities, he worried. Constantly. Hovering slightly on the bottom step, he nodded slightly and climbed up to the seclusion of his bedroom.

They were at it again that night. Even worse this time, he could almost hear their exact words. He caught his own name more than once.  
Yanking the blue silken dressing gown over his pyjamas, Sherlock crept out of his room and into the hallway. Pressing himself against the wallpaper, heels glued to the skirting board, he edged his way to the stairs. One advantage of stone stairs was that thy didn't creak, and this he was glad for now. Their voices carried easily in the otherwise silent street; mostly the deep, angry bellowing of his drunken father, every so often his mother plucked up the courage to chime in, a softer voice, almost a whimper. Sherlock had reached the lower hallway. Sliding over to the kitchen door, he flattened himself against the wall again and listened.  
"He's fine, you need to stop worry..."  
"I'm not worried! I'm protecting society, that boy needs help, he's completely socially inept!"

"There's nothing wrong with him, he's just, different…"  
"He's a friking psychopath!"  
"We can't move again..."  
"You'll do whatever I say, you're my wife." crash. Sherlock gasped at the sound of mother's favourite vase smashing against the wall. Whimpering and snivelling,  
"George, you're hurting me..."  
"We're not staying here Melissa. I will not have my child expelled from another class. He's been truanting, again! There is something wrong with him and I don't like what Mycroft tells me about that school." his harsh words punctuated her shaking sobs. "And this bloody kitchen is a mess! I can't stand this house..."  
"Please, George, the boys just got settled..." she could barely get the words out.  
"We're moving!"  
"But Sherlock..."  
"Don't even talk to me about him!" there was another loud crash, it sounded horribly like the table being turned over.  
"You're hurting me. Stop."  
"Shut up!"  
"Stop it." Sherlock's voice was low but commanding. He stepped purposely through the doorway, striding to the middle of the room.  
"What are you doing up?!" his father's face was red and ruddy with drink and rage. He had once been handsome. He too had high, chiselled cheekbones and piercing eyes. Fists clenched, standing furiously over the upside down table.  
"If you want to have a privet discussion about me you should probably lower the volume."  
"You little..."  
"Psychopath? Because really I think domestic abuse is probably a bigger pointer than being more intelligent than everyone else at your school."  
"How d..."  
"George!" his mother's shrill voice sounded over the man's shouting, "Please, stop!"  
"Shut it!"  
"Don't talk to her like..." but the rest of his words were drowned by a blow. Sherlock's shoulder slammed into the stove as he was knocked sideways. The pain shot down to his arm and into his fingertips.  
"George please!" she was begging now, her voice growing higher and higher in desperation, "don't hurt my children..."  
"They're my children to you little slag, and I only hurt one of them..."  
It was the alcohol that made him sadistic, made him hurt her for the fun of it, but the resentment that bubbled up inside him was to strong.  
"You know," Sherlock murmured, "As 'socially inept' as I am, I can tell when I'm not wanted." he stood up slowly, the pain still throbbed in his shoulder but he refused to show it. Heading for the front door, he only turned back at his mother's voice,  
"Sherlock where are you going!?" there were year tracks down her soft face, another bruise already forming around her eye. She could barely get the words out.  
"Away. And I'm not coming back until you're sober." the last part was directed at his father. Slamming the door behind him, he marched briskly away from the house, ignoring his mother's pleas and his father's yells from inside. It was raining. Hard. 'Just my luck', he thought angrily, wrenching out his mobile.

_I'm coming over. I need somewhere to sleep.__  
__S_


	19. GE - Chapter 4

Chapter 4  
JOHN  
A soft knocking. He had never been a particularly heavy sleeper and the incident in Africa hadn't helped. He woke easily to the quietest noise. Squinting slightly, John shrugged and rolled over; it was probably nothing.  
It sounded again, this time accompanied by a low whisper.  
"John."  
What the hell!? What was Sherlock doing here at, he glanced at the clock, 3 in the morning?! Throwing off the covers John strode over to the door and murmured through the wood, "Sherlock?"  
"Can I come in?"  
"What the hell are you doing here?!"  
"Please let me in..."  
Slightly worried at the dead tone, he grasped the handle before stopping, realising his bare arms were horribly exposed. Yanking his dressing-gown off the dresser and pulling it on to cover the thin scars, he opened the door. Sherlock's face was deathly pale and dripping with rain water. His hair was drenched, making it appear charcoal black. Sodden pyjamas clung to his slight frame and he clutched his shoulder unconsciously. There were goose bumps on his ivory arms and he shivered ever so slightly.  
"Sherlock! What?!" he pushed past John and into the room, perching on the edge of the bed. "You're soaked!"  
"I take it you didn't get my message?"  
"What?!" sure enough, when John snatched up his mobile there was one new text. After a pause, during which he read it, he continued his questioning. "Why do you need to stay here?"  
"He hit her."  
"Sorry?"  
"My dad. He gets drunk, he hits her."  
"Oh my God, your mum?! Is she..."  
"She's fine." it was the look on his colourless face and the slow rubbing of his shoulder that gave it away.  
"He hit you too?!" Anger and a strange protective instinct rose up inside him. "Are you ok?! What are you going to do? Are they splitting up?!"  
"She'd never leave."  
"But he's hurting her, hurting her kids..."  
"Kid. He never touches Mycroft."  
"Sherlock, I'm sorry, are you sure you're ok..?"  
"I'm fine. I needed to get out. I need to think."  
"Umm, sure." a small sliver of insecurity rose up against the furious monster in his chest. "So, um, are you going to sleep here or..."  
"I won't sleep." but Sherlock had rolled over onto his side and was laying his soaking head down on the pillow.  
"Wait, don't you, um, want to change, or get a towel or something?"  
"I'm fine."  
"You're soaked through! Here," John plucked a hoody off the cluttered floor and, pulling it on carefully when Sherlock's face was turned away to avoid revealing his forearms, tossed his friend the dressing gown.  
"Thank you." he mumbled, pulling the dark folds around himself and curling up. John just stood for a while, awkwardly hovering over his friend, unsure what to do next.  
"You do realise that's my bed?"  
"What? I'm not stopping you from using it."  
"Ok, now people will defiantly talk," the blonde muttered, clambering in beside him. It was a relatively warm night and the crowded single bed didn't do much for the heat. The valleys and mountains of the pure white sheets where a tangled mess at their feet. Their legs gently brushed together, Sherlock's long and still wet, the clammy moisture seeping into the shorter boys pyjamas; John's shorter and hot to touch. Nerves? He felt a pair of long arms wrapping around him from behind. The straggling wet rat's tails were pressed into the back of his head. "I still can't believe you walked here in the rain."  
"I wanted to be somewhere safe." Safe. John smiled to himself, so they both felt safe. It made him happy that he was a haven, a rock. He'd always been the vulnerable one. That was why his left forearm was laddered with scars. But now he was the protector and he liked it.  
"What are you going to do?"  
"I don't know." they were silent once more. The only sound their heavy breathing, the occasional rustle of blankets; rain still pelted against the window. 'I'm safe here'. Really, it was the first time he had felt totally safe since the back of that police car, and even then, his heart rate hadn't exactly been low. 'I could just fall asleep like this...' and he soon did. Enveloped in the blankets and sheets and Sherlock's protective arms, John fell asleep quicker than he had in months.

SHERLOCK  
The rest of the week passed with the usual boredom; Anderson gave John a nose bleed in dodge-ball, they got their latest history essays back ('see me' was scrawled across the top of his in red marker), Molly accidentally brushed his hand while handing out textbooks and jumped so high it was almost as if he'd given her a high voltage electric shock. But nothing about the case. Not a single update. Furious and frustrated, he had made plans to catch a train at the weekend. He wasn't sure what John was going to think about it...

"We're going to Leeds?!"  
"Yes. This weekend."  
"This weekend?!"  
"Yes, on the train."  
"On the train?!"  
"Yes, John maybe of you listened more carefully you wouldn't have to repeat everything back."  
the blonde boy shook his head in what Sherlock thought was disbelief, "How exactly are we going to get onto a crime scene? What is it you're looking for?!"  
"Data. Facts, anything we can use to solve this."  
"Right... that still doesn't answer the question, how are we going to get into the..." but they were interrupted by the unceremonious arrival of Molly Hooper.  
"Hi," she grinned nervously.  
After a pause John answered for both of them, "Hi Molly."  
"So, um, nice day..."  
"Yeah..."  
Just when he was wishing their teacher would hurry up and save him from this boredom (chemistry was his favourite subject, it was one of the very few interesting, really useful subjects), he noticed the glimpse of silver under the mass of mousy hair.  
"Molly, your ear..."  
"Oh," she reached for her lobe unconsciously, "yeah, I got them pierced."  
"When?"  
"Um, like two days ago. Why?"  
"Nothing." he remembered now, the picture... The gardener...  
"Solid sterling silver."  
"Sorry?" again, he was relying on John to keep the conversation afloat.  
"It's Stirling silver. Just, if you're interested. It cost quite a lot really," John nodded in agreement, feigning interest, probably so as not to 'hurt her feelings'. Who knew what that meant… "I'm allergic, see. To most metals, cobalt, nickel, copper, I have to use and un-reactive one, or I get a rash."  
"Right." thankfully, at that moment they were relieved by a loud voice across the room,  
"Molly Hooper, kindly return to your seat so I can start the lesson. Apologies for my late arrival, class, I hope you've all used that time wisely to get your books out?" Molly blushed and scuttled back to the opposite corner, leaving Sherlock reciting the periodic table under his breath and John flicking through the text book.

JOHN  
The train journey was by no means easy. Sherlock was many things but he most certainly was not a social chameleon, he stuck out like a sore thumb.  
Mutton on the Wold station was small and fairly desolate, but the dark haired boy still managed to cause a scene by standing over the yellow line and having to he pulled back by a guard as their train approached. Once boarded, John's problems did not end. Having only been on a train once before, Sherlock was having difficulty adjusting to the atmosphere. That prickly silence you feel cannot be broken even by a whisper. He even started crouching on the floor peering under the hideously patterned chairs.  
"Sherlock," John hissed for the fourth time already, "will you please just sit still?!" he was conscious of the many strange looks they were receiving...  
"What?!" the indignant voice of his companion sounded muffled through the chair.  
"Just," John grabbed the back of the long black coat and shoved Sherlock into his seat, "just act normal an hour or two?"  
"I was..."  
"You know what I mean..." slumping down indignantly in the aisle seat, Sherlock turned away. "Ignoring me now? Mature."

It was half an hour later before Sherlock even spoke again, a new wave of subjects had boarded the train at a particularly busy stop.  
"One teacher (geography), two lawyers, one single father, three women on college research trip..." he muttered  
"For god's sake, Sherlock, take a day off!"  
"One feminist librarian, one journalist facing a deadline..."  
"Shh!" John dug his elbow into the taller boys ribs as the women in the shocking pink coat stared at them, confused and irritated at their daring to break the social conventions.  
"What?! This is so dull John!"  
"I know, but just... just think to yourself? In your head ok?"  
"You want to know how I know?"  
"I thought you'd just noticed?" he couldn't resist.  
Sherlock shot him a look and continued, "the teacher: tiny patches of ink on his sleeve, remarkable ink, white board. Pen in his pocket is red, no business man writes in red pen. Marking. The geography? His shoes. Tiny lumps of welsh soil, clay and limestone. He's been on a field trip. Now, the women on a research trip: college students obviously. Papers, laptops, folders. Sandwiches are homemade, but rushed. Cheap bread, small fillings. They were in a hurry, but couldn't afford to buy their lunch. They wouldn't travel this far to a lecture and there's a perfectly good library in town so they're clearly visiting somewhere for research. The single father..."  
"Sherlock! Shh, everyone's staring!" there were in fact multiple pairs of disapproving eyes boring into them. Just, save it ok?" raising his eyebrows dismissively, Sherlock turned away for a second time.

The journey was a long one, John soon felt his eyelids grow heavy; keeping an eye on his socially inept friend was exhausting work. The window vibrated against his cheek as he tried to nap against the glass. How anyone could relax with the pounding of every join of track in their head he didn't know. Feeling a tap on his shoulder, John turned round to see Sherlock's pale hand outstretched, offering his coat, exposing the muted purple cotton stretched taught against his torso. Shocked, but feeling touched at the uncharacteristic kindness, he took it. It was nice, knowing that he cared.  
"Thanks."


	20. GE - Chapter 5

Chapter 5  
JOHN  
When at last they finally reached their destination, it was a bit of a struggle to the automatic doors. Sherlock didn't have a problem as he was taller than half the people on the train and had no issue pushing them out of the way to leap onto the platform. His long legs made the daunting gap seem effortless. John hesitated when he reached the edge, his own legs were a lot shorter and he couldn't help noticing the rather large drop to the tracks below. Scarcely had he stopped however when spindly fingers encased his and guided him across to the platform. Sherlock didn't let go when they were both safely off the train, he walked close to John's side and gently stroked the back of his hand with his thumb.  
"Um, Sherlock? You can let go now..."  
"Why?" John's eyes glanced worriedly from face to face amongst the crowds.  
"People are staring..."  
"And?"  
"Please, Sherlock? Can we, just, later?" just before Sherlock could reluctantly withdraw his hand however, as they boarded the escalator, they were accosted.  
"Oi faggots!" Sherlock hadn't even noticed, or he assumed it wasn't him being addressed, but John's head snapped round and he blushed a deep cerise. "We're not..."  
"We don't want your kind round here!"  
"Sherlock, please, let go of my hand."  
"Why should I?"  
"I'm asking you to, please, they could be dangerous..."  
"I'm proving a point."  
A female voice carried over the crowd, "Ciaran, leave it. They're just kids!"  
"I'm 16!" Sherlock called indignantly.  
"Well of you don't want my help!" she was clearly shocked at the lack of praise for her good citizenship.  
"We're fine, thank you..."  
"Help with what?"  
"Sherlock!"  
"Get out of here fags!"  
"We were just leaving. Sherlock, get off..."  
"Leeds doesn't have room for creeps like you!"  
"Hey, leave them alone!" more good Samaritans were joining the defence, bunched together in the escalator.  
"Sherlock let's just go, quickly..." they're footsteps echoed slightly on the concrete as they hurried away, John almost dragging his friend along.  
"You're going to hell faggot!" the original voice carried after them, reverberating in John's ears.

SHERLOCK  
"Do you still want me to let go?"  
"Well there's not much point now is there?"  
"I don't understand..."  
"Well, they thought, we were, together."  
"We were."  
"No, as in, a couple."  
"didn't you say..."  
"I know, but, I..."  
"What?"  
"Would rather just, keep that to ourselves..."  
"Oh." pause "I still don't understand."  
John groaned slightly, half exasperated, half pained.  
"Well, it's a privet thing. I'd rather keep it that way..." Sherlock felt the shaking, sweating fingers slip out of his grasp.  
"You're scared of what they think." he didn't answer. They walked in silence for a few minutes before John spoke again.  
"Where to now?"  
Pulling a small piece of paper out of his coat pocket, Sherlock replied,  
"Crime scene, obviously."  
"I still don't see how we're going get in..."

A thin outline of yellow tape surrounded the large detached house. There weren't many police men, but a small silver BMW and the head of the DI could be seen in front of the crumbling red brick walls.  
"Sherlock, how are we going to get in?"  
"Just keep walking."  
They had reached the barrier. Just as Sherlock lifted the tape to duck underneath it, he appeared. A strong arm stuck out in front of him, holding him back.  
"And where d'you think you're going sonny Jim?"  
Sighing, Sherlock turned to face him. Middle age, two young children, experienced, been in the job for eight, no, nine years. "You can't come in here, it's a crime scene."  
"I know it's a crime scene, that's why we're here."  
He laughed, "there's no way you're getting in here."  
"Let me speak to the detective inspector."  
"What? No, we don't have time for this. I'm gonna have to ask you lads to leave."  
"It's important, I can help."  
"Look, I am a police officer and entering a crime scene is a criminal offence..."  
"Sherlock," John grabbed his arm and hissed in his ear "let's just go, we don't want to get arrested!"  
"Just let me speak to your superior. As residents we have a right to know what's going on. We can help."  
The officer paused before deciding, clearly weighing it up. Risk annoying the detective inspector, or have to put up with irritating persistent teenage boys.  
"Alright, I'll go and fetch her, but you won't get in. Don't feel like you're getting anything out of it..." feeling victorious, Sherlock smirked and smiled smugly at his friend. After another pause in which the officer still hadn't left, John cleared his throat and said "thank you," digging Sherlock in the ribs again with his elbow.

It was exactly two minutes thirty one seconds before he returned, accompanied by a dark skinned woman.  
"What do you want?" she said crisply.  
"I want access to your crime scene."  
"And what on earth thinks I'm going to give you that?!"  
"Because I can help you."  
She scoffed disbelieving and said scornfully "my time is being wasted." she turned on her grey heels but Sherlock spoke before she could walk away.  
"Wait. Barnard, Sergeant Barnard."  
"What?!"  
"He's the sergeant in chief for Mutton on the Wold."  
"I'm sorry, where?"  
"Call him. On the radio, call him and tell him Sherlock Holmes is asking."  
"Wow, you think that'll get you in?! You're a bit full of yourself."  
"Just do it."  
"Please?" John chimed in after a tense pause.  
"Alright kid, bit only out of curiosity. You're not coming on my crime scene."

JOHN  
"Five minutes." the smug look on Sherlock's face when she returned was priceless. John couldn't help but grin goofily at the stuck up sarcastic smile.  
The two of them ducked under the tape and Sherlock led the way into the house.  
"Where did they find the bodies?"  
"First right, kitchen. They were eating together."  
"Of course, the poison was consumed orally."  
"Look kido..."  
"16," Sherlock muttered, holding his mobile up to the low ceiling and taking a photo.  
"Don't get cocky. Your sergeant bloke seems to think you're some sort of genius but I mean, you're extremely privileged to be here!"  
"I'd say you're privileged to have me here."  
"Sorry?!" her look of shock and disbelief was almost comical. As his friend began pouring over the table with a magnifying glass, John shuffled over and muttered  
"He's always like that."  
"God I don't know how you stand it..!" but she smiled as she caught the expression in Johns face as he watched his friend scouring the room for evidence. "Well, I mean, he's a good looking lad..."  
"No, no! We're not, no..!"  
She raised her hands and eyebrows in a look of surrender and defence,  
"Hey, I didn't say anything." But he'd seen it in her eyes. She was right of course, but he didn't want anyone knowing. From his experience from school, the station and even his mother, he knew it wasn't a positive thing. If people knew, they were both going to end up hurt. And not necessarily by others. It had only been a day since he'd brought out the letter opener again and although he felt better today, he was still insecure and uncomfortable with it all. Scowling, John turned away again and crossed the room to join Sherlock, who was now examining the blinds.  
"Any ideas?"  
"Six, so far."  
"Six?!"  
"Maybe five..." he murmured, running his fingers along the window. "it's fairly obvious what happened, someone snuck in through the window and added the weed killer to their food, we just needs to find out who... and why..."  
"Um, cook?"  
"Possibly. We need I talk to all the staff and the family friends."  
"Yeah, 'cause that's gonna happen!"  
"What do you mean?"  
"She barely let us in here! There's no way she'll let is talk to the suspects!"  
"Luckily for me, Mycroft's name can work wanders for that."  
"What?"  
"Student and local newspaper research journalist," he pulled a laminated card out of his coat pocket and held it up for John to see, "you can get in pretty much anywhere."  
"Where did you get this?"  
"I pickpocket him when he's annoying, you can keep that I've got plenty at my house."  
"You're unbelievable."  
"Correct." he was inspecting the plastic bagged evidence on the table now.  
"Hey, hey hey! You can't touch that!"  
"It's important..."  
"It's police evidence!"  
Sherlock shrugged and turned away, but John thought he saw his friend's hand slip back into the bag... "And I said five minutes!"

Approximately a minute later however, they were being forced off the premises and ushered away by the original officer. The DI followed behind,  
"I don't care if the sergeant Barnard thinks you're some kind of genius, it is not up to some arrogant kid to tell me how to run my investigation!" her face was almost purple with rage. "And don't say you're 16 again because I swear to god..." she continued as Sherlock opened his mouth to retaliate. "Get your stuck up ass of my crime scene!"

"I told you not to..." John had to jog to keep up with Sherlock's angry pacing. "What did I say? I said don't get cocky."  
"John, their forensics team was a state!"  
"Yes but that's no cause to tell the DI that she's running a shambolic investigation and that you could have gathered all the information she had in a quarter of the time!"  
"It's true isn't it?!"  
"Probably, but... Look Sherlock you can't just say things because they're true!"  
"So I can lie?"  
"No, well, sometimes... Oh my god you're impossible."  
"Improbable."  
"Shut up."


	21. GE - Chapter 6

**ahhhg I'm sorry it's been ages, don't hate me! Also, I'm going to be away over half term so I won't be uploading. Anyways, enjoy :)**

* * *

Chapter 6

JOHN  
A little way down the street, John started to wander where they were actually going.  
"So what next?" in answer Sherlock pulled a small damp piece of paper out of his pocket. John took it and read:

_Diquat dibromide, 2, 4-dichlorophenoxyacetic acid, glyphosate, zinc, hydrophilic acid, atrazine_

"Weed killer? What's this?"  
"The murder weapon!"  
"Wait, you took this from the crime scene?!"  
"Well, technically I didn't steal the evidence per say, it's just the label..."  
John couldn't help laughing "Sherlock you can't..!"  
"I need to find out what's in it!"  
"Ok, ok. But what are we going to do now? Go back?"  
"Of course not, we still have suspects to interview."  
"Seriously?! So, we're staying the night?"  
"There's a travel lodge down the road."  
As he extended his strides, John sighed, muttering "right, ok. We're staying the night in Leeds, on a murder investigation. Right. Ok then..."

SHERLOCK  
They had to wait almost a full minute after he'd rung the bell.  
"What can I do for you lads?" an overly cheerful blonde in a tight fitting uniform had finally appeared to serve them.  
"A room for the night."  
She looked at him with eyes that said sarcastically 'never!' but her contract probably forced her to smile and say "I'm sorry, we don't have any double rooms left..."  
"It doesn't matter."  
"We're not a couple!" John called indignantly form the other side of the room.  
The receptionist leaned closer to Sherlock as she gave him the key, rolling her eyes and muttering "mines just the same, can't stand PSA."

"John,"  
"Mmm?"  
"What's PSA?"  
"Who told you... it's public signs of affection, why..?"  
"Nothing."  
Their bags lay discarded on the horribly carpeted floor, John sat cross legged on one of the thin lumpy beds, Sherlock sprawled across the other.  
"How long are we staying here? You do realise we have to get back for Monday?"  
"Yes I realise and we're staying until I've figured this out."  
"Right." pause. "Any ideas, as to who killed them?"  
"Several." they were silent for a little longer.  
"Well I'd go with the gardener. Perfect opportunity, means and... what's the other one? Umm..."  
"Motive. That's why we need to talk to them."  
"Oh." he lay down and rolled over, pulling the thin covers over himself. "Well, I'm going to bed." when Sherlock didn't respond he continued, reaching across to the light switch "night..."  
"Good night John."  
"Um, are you going to sleep?"  
"I might."  
"Right... Well, night."  
"Good night John."

"Mutton on the Wold local news?"  
"Yes, research team."  
"Never heard of it."  
Biting back the urge to point out that no one has heard of his pathetic, boring hometown, Sherlock replied "oh really? It's quite a prominent paper."  
"Right... And who was it you wanted to talk to?"  
"Detective Inspector Malcom-Smith, she's heading the Riley murder investigation."  
The balding receptionist sighed, muttering (he clearly assumed they couldn't hear him) 'bloody journalists' then out loud saying "I'll see if she's free boys but I don't think anyone is free to take questions on that particular investigation."  
"Oh, we don't mind waiting," John chimed in.  
Raising his tiered eye to the heavens, he buzzed the intercom.

"You?! Marcus said it was a student paper!"  
"We are." Sherlock waved the card in front of her face, briefly so as to avoid her questioning the photograph and first name. He didn't look anything like Mycroft.  
"So when you barged onto my crime scene yesterday, you were writing a bloody report?!"  
"More or less."  
He noticed John smirked at the deflection.  
"Right, right... Look, there's not a lot I can say about this investigation..." she ran her fingers through her hair agitatedly.  
"Oh you don't need to say much."  
"Really, and why is that?"  
"I can read everything I need to know."  
"Nothing's been published yet..."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "no not in the papers, in you."  
"What do you..."  
"I can read that this is your first investigation in your nails and your frankly shambolic forensic organisation, I know you're nervous, getting more and more panicked, I can tell you've thought about making an arrest already but... oh," it hit him. "Gardener."  
"What? How did you know all that?!"  
Just as he was about to run into the long list including her bitten nails, chewed bottom lip, the unnatural amount of shredded paper in the bin and the tiny amount of fertiliser on her grey skirt however; John stepped in front of him,  
"It's really not important detective inspector."  
"You knew all that? That's amazing."  
Sherlock shrugged dismissively, "meretricious."  
"Well, um," she'd clearly changed her mind; Sherlock felt the familiar victorious bout of euphoria at proving he wasn't just a pompous kid. "What is it you wanted to know?"  
"Why isn't he in a cell?"

JOHN  
The table was their neutral zone, a middle ground with him and Sherlock on one side and the, rather intimidating, DI on the other. Only the small portable voice recorder, which John assumed had been stolen from Mycroft, lay in the centre of the pale oak expanse.  
"So, um," the overwhelmed and still confused boy struggled to begin the 'interview'.  
"Why did you arrest him in the first place?" Sherlock interrupted.  
"Well the murder weapon made him an obvious suspect..."  
"Too obvious," he muttered.  
John shhh-ed him.  
"And he had adequate opportunity. He says his shift was over but he could easily have gone around the back and climbed in through the window."  
"And the motive?"  
There was a tense pause during which the only sound was the soft buzzing noise of the recorder.  
"That garden may not look it, but it's worth a lot. The Riley land is very valuable and has been for years."  
"So, the motive was the money?" John asked, trying to keep up with the facts as he scribbled short hand.  
"Dull, boring, predictable..."  
"But a good motive."  
"Yes."  
"Wait," still not completely comprehending and sick of Sherlock assuming he did, John decided it was his turn to ask the questions. "If the gardener is such a sure suspect, why isn't he locked up?"  
"Well first there's no evidence it was him, no fingerprints, nothing. And second, the weed killer's not his. It's a different brand that he never uses because of allergies. So someone else mist have bought it..."  
"Hoping to frame him. Neat."  
"Yeah..." she seemed a little unnerved by Sherlock's attitude to the whole thing, most people were.  
"So what exactly is he allergic to?"  
"Um," she reached for a file, John caught his friend's eyes raising to the ceiling in irritation. "It says right here, um, yes. 'Most reactive metals, zinc, titanium and a few others' he said."  
Sherlock stood up suddenly, staring into the distance.  
"Sherlock..." but John knew that look meant he'd had a 'eureka moment' and they were probably going to start running in a minute.  
With alight head shake, as though coming out of a trace Sherlock said "That'll be everything detective inspector." and swept out of the office.  
"Um, thank you." John shrugged awkwardly and followed.

"Sherlock?"  
"What?"  
"Um, well, I was just thinking..."  
"You were?"  
"Shut up. Anyway, you haven't been home since Friday night, don't you think they might be worried about you?"  
"Probably."  
"You don't care?!"  
"Why should I? They don't want me there, I don't want to be there."  
"But, but..." John was disbelieving that anyone could be that distances from emotion. "Your mum, your brother..."  
"They'll live, I'll be back by Monday." still striving to prove that people did worry and care, John lunged for Sherlock's pocket, pulling out his mobile.  
"Oh god look, 15 unread messages and 17 missed calls Sherlock!"  
"So?"  
"Would you just, call back? For me?"  
Sherlock stared at him for a while, before extending his hand.  
"Ok. For you."  
He took it and John watched, grateful and mesmerised as his long fingers danced over the keyboard. "There," he held it up do John could see the screen.

_I'm in Leeds with John. I'm fine. Stop worrying._  
_SH_

* * *

**Yeah I don't know anything about weed killer or science and stuff so I basically googled/made it up. But it works, so yeah. **

**Please review or let me know if you enjoyed! Also, I've written a few johnlock shorts prompted by All Time Low lyrics and it would be grest if you checked them out. The story's called 'Nothing Personal' :) **


	22. GE - Chapter 7

Chapter 7  
SHERLOCK  
No sooner had he pressed send when the whole phone vibrated, issuing a horrible shrill beeping. Mycroft. Sighing, Sherlock tilted his head at John as if to say 'do I have to?'  
"Answer it."  
Irritated and honesty a little worried, he held the phone to his ear.  
"Sherlock is that you?"  
"Who did you think it would be, it's my number." he said, trying to postpone the moment when Mycroft would tell him to come back. 'I don't want to go back' the words drummed in his head, potential excuses and reasoning presenting themselves in turn.  
"Where the hell are you?!"  
"Leeds, I told you."  
"Why?!"  
"Case."  
"For god's sake! You can't just run off like that! I haven't seen you since Thursday night, Mums been worried sick, dads been..."  
"Completely indifferent?"  
"No, he's furious! Threatening all sorts of horrible stuff..."  
"And that's supposed to convince me to return how?"  
"Because the longer you stay the worse it'll get and mothers petrified."  
"I can't. I have to solve this case."  
"You don't have to do anything except get home before dad goes and calls the police!"  
"You make it sound like he cares. If the police came they'd find out about the drinking. I'm not coming home. I said I wouldn't until dad was sober and he's not. Plus this case is just getting interesting."  
"Sherlock you have to come home right..." but Mycroft's final plea was cut off as Sherlock hung up. He didn't want to argue; there was nothing left to discus.  
A timid voice from behind him, "Sherlock..."  
"John don't you start telling me I've got to go home too because it's not going to work."  
"But if..." he trailed off, silenced with a look.

"You should tell someone you know..." god was he still on about that?! "Child services or something..."  
"Why?"  
"Why?! Because they can stop it! Do you enjoy seeing your mum like that?!"  
"No, but..."  
"But what?!"  
After a long and tense pause, during which Sherlock racked his extensive brains for a way to explain. It was his battle, he would feel like he had cheated. And if his father found out there'd just be more trouble. He spoke quietly, "it's, complicated..."  
"You're scared."  
"No. I..."  
"Jesus, Sherlock you're allowed to be scared! Hell I would be!"  
"I don't get scared."  
"Oh my god! You cannot be serious?! This isn't a matter of pride, it's not something you should try and deal with yourself! Get some help!"  
"What do you want me to do John? Phone child-line or something? With what evidence? On what grounds?"  
"Look those people are experienced with this sort of stuff, you're not."  
"So what, go to the police? Let my dad find out? If they come and search the house, try to talk to him, he'll know." that shut him up. John seemed genuinely unable to think of a response, eventually he slipped his hand into the taller boys.  
"There must be, something...?"  
"And I wouldn't have thought of it? Me?"  
"We'll figure something out." he squeezed his fingers. John's mind was clearly still occupied with his domestic situation; Sherlock's was raving on with the case.  
"I need to talk to the gardener."  
"What, sorry?!"  
"The gardener. I need to talk to him."  
"How do you propose we do that? There's no way the detective inspector..."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and interrupted, "you keep assuming we need her permission, he's not arrested remember?"  
"What, so we just go and talk to him?"  
"Of course," he smirked, "I know how much of a gardening enthusiast you are."  
It took a few seconds, but the expression on John's face when the penny clunked into place was worth it.  
"You're not serious..."

JOHN  
A rainbow of colours and smells surrounded him. Poppies and pansies and petunias, sweet peas and begonias and lilies. He could see a small vegetable patch too, out of the corner of his eye; cauliflowers and cabbages and carrot tops peeping out of the soil. However much John had tried to imagine his life at a normal secondary school, however wild the fanaticises grew, he would never have pictured himself hiding in a geranium bush trying to get a good look at a possible murder suspect.

The gardener, John had to admit, did look as if he would be able, mentally or physically, to kill someone. He had a wide, set jaw that jutted out from the rest of his unwelcoming, unshaven face. The features were chiselled, but not in the way Sherlock's were, alien and strangely beautiful; they were rough, asymmetric, pointed, as though punching him would do more damage to your hand than him. Muscles bulged under his tight T-shirt, his tanned forearms well covered with tattoos. There were also pictures and patterns on his shoulders and the base of his neck. Strong legs, black eyes, and a look that said 'don't mess with me or the damn garden'.  
"Sherlock..."  
"What?"  
"Maybe we shouldn't..."  
But it was too late. Sherlock sprang up and made his way quickly, but careful to avoid the plants, towards the formidable man. 'Oh his here we go again', John sighed, clambering to his feet and following.  
"Morning." he couldn't help laugh in exasperation as he caught up, his friend was putting on the local accent.  
"Morning," their companion grunted.  
"Tulips coming along well," Sherlock observed.  
"Yeah, surprising, they're not in season."  
"You must have very good soil..."  
"Ridley's 'ave always been lucky with their soil." he still seemed reluctant to talk.  
"Yeah, I wouldn't even try growing tulips in this weather, doubt I'd have the skill..."  
This comment seemed to be all that he needed to open up a little more, "'tis difficult, weeds an' everything."  
"Yeah," John chimed in at a look from his friend, "my, umm, well all my plants keep getting taken over by, weeds and stuff..." he trailed off lamely, how ever much Sherlock had tried to convince him, he knew absolutely nothing about gardening. His father never had time and his mother felt it was 'too much work just to make a few flowers grow'. Harry had tried once, when she was very young. John remembered the early African summers with a pang. The gardener raised his head, giving John an intimidating look that clearly said 'I know what you're doing and I'm not falling for it'.  
Sherlock clearly saw it too, but he made one last attempt, "Would you be able to recommend a weed killer, Mr, umm...?"  
"Call me Garry," he held out his soiled hand to shake, but his face was still full of distrust, "I make my own, industrial week killers give me allergies..."  
"Well, they trigger your allergies, the don't give you..." oh crap.  
"He means thanks for the advice," John stepped in front of Sherlock to try and keep hostilities to a minimum. "What exactly are you allergic to?"  
"Metals," Garry grunted, "copper, zinc, all that stuff."  
"Oh right..." from the taller boy's tone, John could tell he was planning something; but as Sherlock hadn't thought to confide it in him, he kept quiet. "Hey, cool earring," it really was laughable, for someone who had such trouble deciphering emotions from facial expressions, Sherlock was a pretty good actor.  
"Yeah," it seemed the gardener was very limited in his vocabulary, that or he was having doubts about the pale, formal teenager in felt of him being interested in piercings. "Got it done at Megan's."  
"Megan's...?"  
"Megan Barks, tattoos and piercings are you even from round here?"  
"Yeah, moved in a week ago." again, John had to marvel at the speed and ease of his friend's improvisation.  
"Picked up an accent quickly didn't 'cha?"  
"Uh, yeah I guess... Anyway, we better be off. Thanks for um, the advice."  
After another grunt of acknowledgement, the boys left as quickly as possible, knowing they'd probably aroused his suspicion enough for the day.

"So," John asked as they hurried out of Garry's sight and towards somewhere quiet to talk, "what do you think?"  
"I think he did it."  
"What, really?! That's a bit judgemental isn't it? I mean, I thought he looked a bit dodgy too, but..."  
Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes in his typical 'why do I even bother explaining everything to you stupid people' expression, "not because he 'looked dodgy', because DI Malcom-Smith is right, he has opportunity, motive and means."  
"But his alibi..."  
"His alibi, to use your words, is a load of bollocks."

SHERLOCK  
"Wait, how do you know? Is he lying?"  
"Of course he's lying."  
"So, so what are we doing now?"  
God John could be stupid sometimes, it was moments like these that make Sherlock question if bringing him along really was a good idea. But he knew he would be a whole lot more unhappy without him, and he thought better aloud.  
"We're going to tell the detective-inspector and then..."  
"We're going home?" he tried to hide the hope, but Sherlock caught it anyway.  
"We're taking the train back to Mutton on the wold, yes."  
"And then we're going to do something about your parents." it wasn't a question, but it was obvious John wanted an answer. For once however, Sherlock found he couldn't provide one. He didn't know what to do. "Sherlock promise me we'll at least try and tell someone...?"  
"Fine."  
"Why are you so against trying to get some help?"  
"It'll just make it worse."  
"Are you worried about going home?"  
Honestly, the answer was yes. The case had offered a distraction, given him a reason to be away from his family, but now it was over, solved. And he would have to go back. Back to never ending arguments, deafening shouts and threats, to abuse frankly. But he didn't get scared, or worried. He didn't have emotions.  
John was still looking at him, he knew the answer even if Sherlock didn't voice it. After checking they were completely alone, he stood on tiptoes to plant a gentle kiss on the taller boy's forehead. "I promise we'll stop it ok?"  
"I'm fine..."  
"Don't start with that again. I know it's not ok, and that's ok, it's all ok. I'll help you fix it, ok?"  
"Ok. Thank you."  
"You're welcome. I'm your friend, I'm not going to let you go through this alone."  
Interesting. Sherlock had never had a friend before and this, having someone by your side when you had to get things done, that was something he had never understood the appeal of before. But now that he'd got it, he didn't want to have to face this alone.

"His alibi is a lie."  
"Sorry, what?" he wasn't very good at reading facial expressions, but he assumed it was anger and confusion on the dark skinned women's face at two teenagers bursting into her office.  
"The gardener, Garry Cliffe, his alibi about allergies is a lie. He's your killer."  
"Excuse me?!"  
Oh my god, why didn't people understand?!  
"The Ridley's, he's their murderer."  
"And how exactly did you get into my office?!" Sherlock rolls his eyes irritably, seriously, why were normal people so obsessed with the trivial questions!  
"Look, I know how he did it and why, if you want my help, if you want to actually make an arrest before your superior comes asking for the report, I would skip the pointless questions and let us in."

JOHN  
It was giving him a slight sense of deja vu, sitting around the small table in DI Malcom-Smith's cramped office, with the tight lipped women on the opposite side to him and Sherlock.  
"So, tell me again. From the beginning." she pulled out a pen, but didn't use it. Choosing instead to lean on her elbows and pass it through her fingers absentmindedly.  
Raising an eyebrow at her odd habit, Sherlock took a breath, and started. "Garry Cliffe is employed by the Ridley's, fine. Great. New gardener who's cheap and does a good job, everything's coming up roses, (pun not intended) they don't realise however that he's actually a relative of the original Ridley gardener. You're right in saying that garden's valuable, but it's not because of the land or the plants, it's because there's a secret. That man, Cliffe's great grandfather, he was killed there, and he's buried there."  
"How the hell do you know that?!" John blurted out, why hadn't Sherlock thought to share this with him?!  
"Tulips John, no way autumn soil could grow tulips that well, unless there's decaying matter keeping it fertile. That and the tattoo."  
"Tattoo?"  
"Family crest, on the base of his neck. May I continue uninterrupted?" Jesus he could be a pain. The dark haired boy smirked at johns disapproving gaze. "Cliffe knows about the murder and he's out for revenge. Weed killer isn't a particularly intelligent weapon choice (like I said, it's too obvious), but then he isn't exactly the thinking type. After poisoning the Ridley's, he realised quite how stupid it was and gets rid of all the weed killer, claiming he has allergies when the police question him. But he made a fatal error," Sherlock paused, clearly enjoying having John and the detective hanging off his every word, open mouthed. "The earring." he sat back in the chair triumphantly, clearly under the impression it was all explained, he looked as though he expected applause.  
Eventually, the detective spoke up, "I still don't really understand, how do you know it's a false alibi?"  
Sherlock sat forward again, evidently confused as to what he hadn't clarified. "The earring," he said slowly, as if talking to a very slow child.  
"Yeah, what about the earring Sherlock?!"  
"Newly pierced, less than a month old? Clearly cheap, bad quality, i looked up 'Megan Barks, tattoos and piercings' and it's very low standard and probably extremely unhygienic. It would certainly have contained metal impurities."  
"Oh, you mean it would have had zinc in it?" John asked, finally starting to understand:  
"And others, it would have certainly triggered his allergies if he had any."  
"Oh, so, he's not allergic..?" asked the detective, seeming to have cottoned on too.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes (despite John's warning look), "of course he's not allergic, now go and arrest him inspector, that's what you do best."  
"Right... Wow, that really was amazing..."  
"Don't encourage him," the blonde muttered as Sherlock got up to leave, stretching and strutting like a peacock. "It'll only make him worse than ever."

* * *

**HEY sorry its been ages, i was on holiday. But anyway, i made it like double the length for you guys so i think its ok... :)**  
**Still to come: Sherlock goes home to an abusive household (angstttttttt, but i promis it'll all have a happy ending)**

**Please review, i love reviews like mycroft loves cake**


	23. GE - Chapter 8

Chapter 8  
SHERLOCK  
His father's voice rang out as soon as he pushed open the door, carrying through the living-room into the hallway. Damn it. Sherlock had texted Mycroft to say he was returning, and he'd supposed his brother would pass the information along, but he had hoped to sneak upstairs un-accosted.  
"Decided to show your face again have you?!" The speech was slurred, the sounds harsh and plosive. Sherlock couldn't help unconsciously rubbing his shoulder, remembering the last time they'd spoken. "And where the hell have you been?!" he still had a chance to sneak past; his father was slouched in an arm chair with his back to the door. Sherlock couldn't see his face, but he didn't need to to know he was intoxicated. Again.  
"Sherlock," the whisper came from the top of the stairs, he looked up to see his mother's lined and terrified face poking out of the airing cupboard. Eyes flitting nervously to the living-room door, she beckoned him towards her. Practice had made Sherlock pretty apt at climbing the stairs quietly, and he soon made it to her shaking arms. He tried to speak but she hushed him, gesturing towards the cupboard.  
Once inside, and after she had firmly wedged the door closed, she pulled him into her grasp, enveloping him tightly, pressing his face into her sweet smelling clothes.  
"I was so worried about you darling..."  
"I'm fine..."  
"Shh, you have to be really quiet."  
"What's going on mother?"  
She took a deep breath, clearly still worried about her husband hearing them, "Mycroft went to the child services, after you said you weren't coming back, and, he's there now, but..."  
"But dad found out."  
She nodded, "he's furious, been saying all these horrible things and I realised your brother's right, we can't keep letting him hurt us like this..." she was practically sobbing, taking deep, shuddering breaths every other word.  
"Hurt you." Sherlock corrected.  
"But that's just it, he was threatening to hurt you darling and that's the final straw. I won't let him hurt my children." and she clutched him even tighter to her chest, running her wet fingers through his hair. The cupboard was hot, warm air vents and thick winter blankets and close bodies made for a small furnace. Itchy wool ticked the back of his neck.  
"Melissa!" a shout came from downstairs, he'd realised they weren't with him.  
"He's coming."  
"Shh, it's ok..." not that long ago it had been his best and only friend murmuring those words with comforting contact. Somehow John was a lot better at making him feel safe.  
"I'm fine mother stop fussing..."  
"Shhh..."  
Silence.  
"Melissa!"  
The noiseless tears of Melissa Holmes ran through Sherlock's dark curls and onto his forehead. As her body started to shake even more uncontrollably, he straightened up and wrapped his arms around her head, pressing her against his chest instead. Caring was not an advantage, but where broken glass was concerned covering your head was. Where the hell was Mycroft?  
The yelling and thumping grew louder, he was climbing the stairs, shouting each of their names in turn, growing more and more agitated.  
All Sherlock could hear was his thumping heartbeat, giving away his emotions, his father's drunken stumbling and his mother's muffled sobs. He reached for the handle, pulling the airing cupboard door closer and more firmly shut, making sure it was still wedged in place with a short plank. Then, taking a deep breath just in case, he slid the grill closed, blocking out all the light.  
"I know you're here! Come on Melissa, don't be a whore!"  
Crash. From the volume that was probably his bedroom door being kicked down.  
"Come out you little psycho!"  
Another booming crash. John was right, this was scary.  
Then the door of their hiding place started to shake, the handle vibrating furiously.  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," his mother was whimpering, but Sherlock clamped a hand over her mouth, pressing a finger to his lips. They weren't caught yet.

Light flooded into the cupboard as the door was wrenched of its hinges. A muffled but still piercing scream rang out as the two of them backed further into the blankets, desperately trying to get behind the boiler.  
He didn't speak, just stood there and laughed. Face red from anger and the drink, fists balled making the tendons in his arms stick out, veins throbbing in his forehead. He raised one hand, still laughing like a maniac, and Sherlock caught the glint of light, a smashed bottle. The serrated shards of glass were high above them, held in suspension, ready to drop at any moment.  
"George please! Please don't hurt anyone, think about what you're doing!"  
The house was silent apart from her screams, although Sherlock was pretty sure it wasn't just him who could hear the blood pulsing through his head.  
"Please, don't hurt my children, this isn't the man I married!"  
It wasn't working. She hadn't expected it to. Any second now.  
Crash.  
Both mother and son flinched and backed even further into the cupboard, shielding their faces and trying not to scream.  
But the crashing wasn't from the bottle colliding with flesh or metal, it was the front door.  
"Freeze! Drop your weapon and put your hands where I can see them. This is the police sir, you're under arrest."  
"You went to the police?!" George had dropped the bottle in surprise but he wasn't going to surrender that easily.  
"No, I, it wasn't..." but Sherlock's defence was pointless, he almost cried out as his father's foot collided with his side, repeatedly. These new bruises would join those Dimmock had made on his ribs.  
"Step away sir, on your knees!" two of the officers sprinted up the stairs and grabbed their attacker by the shoulders, pushing him down onto his knees. They heard the reassuring clink of handcuffs. "George Alfred Holmes, you're being charged with being drunk and disorderly, domestic abuse and child abuse, anything you say will be taken down and could be used in evidence against you..."  
"I'm gonna kill you, I hope you know that kid. One of these days..." he didn't get a chance to finish the threat, the officers hauled him to his feet and the drunken man was pulled from the house and assumingly into a police car.  
Melissa was still crying, but as the threat of discovery was gone, her sobs grew louder.  
"I'm so sorry Sherlock, I should have done something, I should have got help sooner..."  
"Shhhh," a strange woman in white and green was leaning over them. She tried to take the crying woman's hand but Sherlock moved his body in front of her defensively. "It's ok, I know it's not been easy, I'm here to help you. I'm a paramedic." she gently pushed him aside and helped his mother to her feet. "Is there anyone we should call?"

JOHN  
He arrived on the scene three minutes after the call, panting slightly, and gasped. Oh god. He hadn't expected such a larger operation.

Red and white tape outlined the house and most of the street in front on it. People, probably curious and nosy neighbours, crowded round but where kept back by harassed looking police officers. Concerned voices where smothered by the harsh sounding gossip and 'I told you so's. A plain-clothed sergeant Barnard was talking urgently to Mycroft in the centre of the scene. A fragile and fretful looking women John assumed was Sherlock's mother was barely visible from the mass of green and white clad paramedics surrounding her, but her shallow breathing and sobs were clearly audible above the noise and confusion.  
Crap, was that an ambulance? The sight of a large green and yellow (that odd florescent colour that hurt your eyes and was instantly associated with urgency) van was what stirred the panic and protective instinct and made him extend his strides towards the nearest officer.  
"John Watson?" the black haired women asked as he neared the house.  
When he nodded she held the tape up, "you're listed as an emergency contact for Sherlock Holmes..?"  
"Really?" wow, that was a surprise. They'd only know each other for three weeks and Sherlock had never seemed the kind of person to list his friends as ICE contacts.  
"Well, he only has four contacts in his phone and as other three already knew..." she shook her head slightly, as if to clear it, "sorry, this type of thing doesn't usually happen here. He was, uh, asking for you." preying he was ok, John nodded and ducked under the plastic, starting to jog towards the ambulance.

Sherlock was sat on the edge of ambulance steps, finger tips placed together, an orange fleece blanket draped over his shoulders. He seemed deep in thought, but smiled as John approached.  
"Are you alright?"  
"Fine." the answer came before the blonde had fully finished the question. And John didn't fully wait for an answer before launching himself at his friend and enveloping him in a bone crushing hug. "John, I said I'm fine..."  
"I was really worried..."  
"You sound like my mother," Sherlock smirked.  
"You're sure you're alright?"  
"Perfectly. Except the NSPCC woman keeps trying to talk to me."  
"She's trying to help you Sherlock," John reproached, squeezing the taller boy's shoulders.  
"It's annoying."  
"So tell her you'll talk tomorrow."  
"I did, oh great, she's coming back."  
The NSPCC woman was the very text book picture of motherly and comforting; plump, smiling and seeming to radiate safety, warmth an acceptance.  
"It's alright now love, they've put your dad in the temporary cells and he'll be talking to the police and child services tomorrow." she paused, obviously expecting some sort of response. When she got none, she turned her attention to John, "you'll look after your friend won't you?"  
He nodded.  
"You're going to have to talk about it at some point hon, better out than in."  
"Maybe tomorrow," the blonde still spoke on Sherlock's behalf, "still in shock."  
"Fine, whenever you feel like telling me what happened, in your own time." she smiled warmly and walked away.  
"She seems really nice Sherlock, what's your problem with her?"  
"She's too nice." realising that route of conversation wasn't going to end well, John switched tact. Taking his friends pale fingers in his, he asked "do you want to talk about it?"  
"You want to know what happened."  
"Well, yeah. If you want to tell me."  
"Will you stay here tonight?"  
The question was unexpected, but John had a feeling his nod of agreement wasn't.

The room was, for want of a better word, a dump. The wooden floor littered with papers and books and the remains of experiments. In the centre of the room, Sherlock seemed to have constructed a huge temporary service from an old oak table, a bathroom cabinet and three cardboard boxes. This too was covered in test tubes, flasks and petri dishes that were probably stolen from the school science labs. Sherlock's violin lay in its velvet lined case over by one of the long windows. Old, single glazing; john guessed the house would get pretty cold. Bookshelves stood either side of a small Victorian fire place that looked as if it hadn't been used for its original purpose for years; torn paper and odd smelling chemical waste nestled amongst the coals and ... was that a human skull resting on the mantel piece?!  
The other only articles of furniture that didn't seem to be makeshift were a solid looking old fashioned dresser and the wrought iron bedstead pushed right up against the green painted wall to make more floor space. All the walls were the same dull green, except one which was hideously wallpapered. The odd teenager had clearly shared johns view on the wall as he had tried to cover it up with maps and what looked like pictures of crime scenes. The part of the wall closest to the window even had a smiley face graffitied on it in yellow paint.  
Sherlock seemed strangely nervous, watching John intensely as the shorter boy worked his way around the room.  
"Well, obviously I can," he coughed, "clear up a bit..."  
"It's fine."

John had offered to sleep on the floor, but Sherlock protested and as it really did seem as though he still didn't want to sleep alone, they compromised. Neither of them would take the sofa cushions and they would both just have to try to fit into Sherlock's small bed. To be honest, even though they'd spent the night side by side before, John couldn't help feeling nervous.

He waited until Sherlock went to the bathroom to get changed, borrowing one of his friends many dressing gowns to cover his forearms. It had been difficult, all through the evening he'd been itching for the letter opener before remembering it was still in the boarding house. It was his fault. He could have prevented it; if he'd just gone with him, he only had to have walked Sherlock in the door and it wouldn't have happened. John had had Mycroft's eyes on him the whole time too (the paramedics had suggested Melissa Holmes spent the night at the hospital, just for security which left the older brother in charge) so he'd had to make do with making white scores with his fingernail. He had a feeling Mycroft knew, or at least suspected, what level his relationship with Sherlock had reached, but if he did he didn't say anything. For some reason the idea of the tall, thin, calmly collected and yet still intimidating 19 year old knowing about the events on the wood, or what exactly had happened that day after school, or where his brother had gone after storming out on thursday made John extremely uncomfortable. He was just glad they weren't discussing it, thankful that Mycroft didn't seem to disapprove. Maybe he realised the positive effect the small blonde was having on his brother.

It must have been at least five minutes later when Sherlock finally stepped out of the bathroom. Good god he was attractive. The faded moonlight stripes from the blinds reflecting off his sleek hair, the loose cotton of his pyjama T-shirt somehow showing of his figure even more than his tight fitting uniform.  
Hoping very much that Sherlock didn't start deducing him, John turned away, blushing slightly. Even now he wasn't sure he wanted to admit his true feelings.

SHERLOCK  
_Increased heart rate, blushing, dilated pupils._  
Sherlock knew exactly what was going through his friend's mind, but he decided agaist saying anything. Instead he made his way over and clambered into bed.  
After standing awkwardly for a minute or two, John said "shuffle up," and crawled in next to him under the many layers of thin blankets.  
It was cold, the Holmes house always was, but even though the two boys were shivering, it was warmer than normal with the two of them so closed together.  
"Is it always this cold?" John asked through chattering teeth.  
"Yes."  
"God, no wander you have so many dressing gowns."  
Smirking, the taller boy rolled over onto his side, so that his face was level with that of his friend, their noses almost touching. "Does Mycroft know?"  
"Know what?"  
"About us?"  
"I assume so."  
"So you haven't told him?"  
"No. But I would assume he knows." his brother was cleverer than Sherlock liked to admit.  
"Right... And your mum?"  
"Doesn't know."  
"Would you tell her if she asked?"  
"Yes." there was a long pause, but it wasn't awkward or dragged out. It was peaceful and calming. That is until it was broken.  
"Do you want to tell me what happened?" John was almost whispering, but Sherlock could still feel his breath as they talked.  
"I have no particular desire..."  
"Will you tell me what happened?"  
He didn't need a long time to think, talking to John would be a lot less hassle and patronisation that talking to the woman from NSPCC. "Yes." he preceded to relate everything that had happened, from the moment he stepped through the door to when John had arrived, watching as his friends face fell with every word.  
"Oh my god." he said when Sherlock has finished, "I'm so sorry..."  
"Why? It's not your fault."  
"It is."  
"How is it your fault?" how was not a question he often asked , he usually understood, even if it was normal people, but this was stupid, even by normal people standards, how was it John's fault?!  
"I should have come with you, I knew you were worried about coming home, I should have gone with you."  
"It's not your..."  
"I shouldn't have let you go away all weekend when they were so worried about you..."  
"John shut up. It's not your fault. It's no one's fault but my dad's."  
John still looked upset and angry, but he shut up. Not for long though.  
"Do you think he'll go to prison?"  
"Probably."  
"What about your mum, are they getting a divorce?"  
This time there was a longer gap because Sherlock didn't know the answer, and he hated having to admit it.  
"I don't know."  
"And the woman from NSPCC said they wanted you to go to a..."  
"Psychiatrist," Sherlock said with disdain. "There's nothing wrong with me." he hated the idea. Being studied and examined like an insect on a slide, like a lab specimen. It wasn't like he was traumatised or anything! He was fine!  
"I know, but maybe she's right, maybe it would be good to talk to someone."  
"I can talk to you."  
"To someone professional I mean," but he saw the blonde smile and felt John's short fingers slipping in between his own.  
"There's nothing wrong with me."  
"I know. But maybe the thera..." he drew a sharp breath at his mistake, before hurriedly continuing. "Psychiatrist will find it more useful than you, you've probably got a very unique brain, in a professional sense." Sherlock could tell his friend was trying to make him feel better, trying to think of a way to make it more interesting, less painful; but he appreciated it anyway.  
"You had a therapist."  
There was a short pause before John answered, Sherlock could tell this was still a sensitive issue. "Yeah, and..?"  
"Just, what was it like?"  
"Umm, well she did help. A bit. I mean, it took a while, and there were times I just wanted to tip the table over and run out of there and never talk to the bitch again, but she was right. I needed it and it did help."  
"I don't need help."  
"Hey," John reproached softly, lifting their linked hands above the blankets to face height and gently brushing his lips against the back of Sherlock's clenched fists. "I know there's nothing wrong with you ok? But there's nothing wrong with talking to someone, and it's probably for the best. Just grit your teeth and do it, you'll probably only have to go once..."  
"Ok."


	24. GE - Chapter 9

Chapter 9  
8:47, painfully early. Ted Jackman sighed, glancing at his watch yet again, willing it to turn faster. Five clients today, and two new ones. God, it was going to be ordeal.  
The office was uncharacteristically clean as it was the start of the week and Natalie would have been in. He liked Natalie, she did a good job, even dusting the bronze plaque on his door which he now pushed open. He grinned, she'd left the paper out for him. After straightening one of the two arm chairs in the centre of the room, he sank into his own, grateful that his job didn't (often) involve sitting at a desk in an uncomfortable swivel chair. Taking a sip of his routine double espresso, he studied the headline: 'girl, 15, killed at house party'. God not another one, that made two in the last month, and all local... Terrible business. Sighing, Ted laid the depressing story aside and turned his attention to the list of names in front of him. 'Sherlock Holmes', what kind of name was that?

He wasn't sure exactly what he'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. Tall and lanky, Sherlock Holmes entered with long strides and a confident air, as though he'd never even heard of domestic abuse. Dark hair fell in curls over his right eye, which sported a faint purple bruise; seemingly his only injury. High cheekbones, piercing eyes and a scowl that said he hadn't come voluntarily; Maggie Milson. Maggie was sweet enough, very good at her job, but Ted had little patience for her. Any inkling of an issue and the poor kid was hauled into his office whether they wanted to talk or not. The psychiatrist organised his patients into three groups, the 'I genuinely do have a problem and I want to get help', the 'I do have a problem but I don't want to fix it', they were usually brought in by friends or family, and the 'forced to go "just to be on the safe side" by Maggie Milson'. Ted suspected Sherlock Holmes was the latter.

He began with his customary 'please sit down' but was interrupted.  
"Can I ask you something Dr Jackman?"  
He refrained from saying 'you just did', even though he was sure the boy could handle a little sass with such a cocky vibe.  
"You can ask me anything, that's why we're here."  
"How much would you rather be at home right now?"  
Ted smirked appreciatively, he liked it when they had a bit of personality and didn't go all teary on him, he really didn't have the energy. "As much as you do I'm assuming." smiling, he extended his hand "Ted Jackman."  
"I know, I did read the sign." but they shook anyway. "Sherlock Holmes."  
"I know, I did read the file." Sherlock smirked and Ted felt that sass might be the way forward after all.  
"Sit down."  
He did.  
"So, you're here to talk to me, and I'm very much hoping you're going to be cooperative even though the NSPCC sent you because I really do want to help you," this was the start of his regular 'people sent by Maggie' speech, asking them for cooperation despite their hatred of the situation.  
"There's nothing wrong with me," the interruption too wasn't wholly unexpected.  
"I understand that, but..."  
"No, you don't." oh crap, this was when it got complicated, when they fought. "You don't understand. I am perfectly fine, not scarred, not troubled. I don't need any help or examination," he almost spat the last word, "I'm only here because I'm being forced."  
"Look, Sherlock," no but seriously, who named their child that? "I'm trying to get to the bottom of what happened with your dad and I can't get the information I need if you don't talk to me."  
"Oh really?" he raised one eyebrow questioningly, "you can't read it?"  
"There's nothing in the file, I want to hear it from you..."  
"Not in the file. In me."  
What?  
He rolled his bright blue eyes, "you have all the information right in front of you, or are you too blind to see it?"  
"Sorry?"  
"Do you want a demonstration? You know what I see? I see someone who despite all their prestigious training still feels they don't get enough recognition - or pay - but who'd never move jobs because they like security and detest change. You're getting towards the stage when you're ready to raise a family, picket fence, couple of kids, home cooked dinners to come back to after a long day at the office; but you've never found the right woman even after all these years. You're thinking about asking the receptionist, Nancy? No, Natalie out for a drink. I wouldn't bother, not really her area. I see someone who hasn't had a good nights sleep in a week, relies on caffeine to get them through the day and is just hoping they've got easy clients today so they just have to sit there and nod. Well you're in luck because I don't want or need to be here either, so you really don't have to bother."  
Ted's mouth was hanging open, how the hell did he know all that?! Eventually he found his voice and just managed to say "what do you mean I'm not Natalie's 'area'?"  
Sherlock raised his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation, "closet lesbian."  
"Seriously?" the doctor had trouble hiding his disappointment. "How, how did you..."  
"Know all of that? I simply observed." arrogant sod.  
"That's ridiculous, how did you know about Natalie? And the caffeine?" how could someone notice all that? He couldn't help eyeing the 16 year old like an insect on a slide, acute professional curiosity spurred him on down this route instead of trying to bring the conversation back to the patient.  
"Natalie was obvious, the way she avoids you and other male colleagues? You'd think she was just shy but she's actually very talkative with her female coworkers and the people in the waiting room. That and the picture on her phone, I'm assuming long term girlfriend."  
"How... But the caffeine..?"  
"Hardly difficult deduction. Double espresso is a clear sign of someone looking for extra energy after a lack of sleep. There are stains from the edge of your mug in the table where you didn't use a coaster, so obviously this is a regular beverage choice."  
"Right," he still couldn't quite believe it, and swore he'd look into this later, "you're absolutely right..."  
The victorious look on the boys face was the happiest he'd seemed since he entered, and Ted was keen to take advantage of this. "But anyway, this session isn't about me, let's get back to you. Tell me, uh, do you have a hobby?" it was a classic question, trying to get them to open up about themselves through quick-fire, then sneak in the question you really want the answer to.  
"I play the violin." Sherlock's voice was dead sounding, he knew exactly what the psychiatrist was doing and wasn't prepared to play the game.  
"Oh really?" Ted tried and failed to sound interested, "do you have a favourite composer?"  
"Bach."  
"Ok, any other things you do in your free time?"  
"I solve puzzles."  
"What sort of puzzles?"  
"Crimes."  
"Sort of like a murder mystery?" this question earned him a look that said 'don't patronise me'.  
"Murder's the most interesting."  
"Oh," he shifted slightly in his seat, sadistic kids made him nervous. Bowlby's theory said children like this with no attachments could be in danger of become affection less psychopaths. But no one really believed this theory was valid, not really. He made a note of it anyway, on his yellow legal pad: 'Bowlby - affection less', conseuos that his patient could probably read his short hand upside down. "So what about school?"  
"What about it?" this was going to be a long hour.  
"Do you have a favourite subject?"  
"Chemistry."  
"Any particular reason?"  
He shrugged, "Its useful, and it's not boring."  
"And I suppose you're interested in forensics?"  
"Yes." it was the doctor's turn to raise an eye brow.  
"Chatty aren't you?"  
"I told you, I don't want to be here."  
It was time to bring out the big guns; well, not literally, just the hard hitting questions. "Who do you spend time with, got any friends?"  
"One."aha, now this was something he could work with. Ted's favourite lecturer at uni had always said 'find something close to them and quiz them on it till they're bone dry. Friends and family and lovers are always the pathways to an open patient', of course, he had also been the one who said 'if you take a shot of water with every alcoholic shot you won't get drunk'...  
"Called?"  
"John."  
"Are you close?" a long pause followed, during which he took his chance to study his patient.  
He was sat back in the chair, fingertips together under his pointed chin, legs crossed at the ankles; closed body language. He looked almost as though he was analysing the professional, not the other way around. He seemed to be considering the question, as of unsure about his relationship.  
"Yes."  
"How long have you known each other?"  
"Two weeks."  
Two weeks?!  
"That's not very long."  
"He just transferred schools." now they were getting somewhere.  
"From?"  
"Home schooled. He lived in Africa."  
Preparing himself, Ted leaned forward.  
"Left or right handed?"  
"Right."  
"Eyes?"  
"Grey."  
"Favourite colour?"  
"Green."  
"Any siblings?"  
"Older sister."  
"Best subject?"  
"Biology and medicine."  
"Worst subject?"  
"Latin."  
"Parents profession?"  
"United Nations army doctor (deceased), mother's unemployed."  
"Any middle names?"  
"Hamish."  
"Well, you certainly seem to know a lot for a fortnights acquaintance." The weary but somewhat impressed doctor sat back in his chair, making a note. He couldn't help but wander if they were just friends, a fortnight seemed a very short time to be so close. He remembered Natalie, the kid certainly seemed to have a good gaydar.  
"I noticed."  
"Does he know what happened with your parents?"  
"Yes."  
"But you wont tell me?"  
"I don't see what there is to tell. The NSPCC woman already told you everything."  
"She didn't tell it the same way you would, she didn't tell me how you felt about it." classic psychiatry, 'tell me how that made you _feel_'.  
"How do you think I felt?" there was a touch of anger and disdain in the boys voice that was somewhat promising. So he was human after all.  
"I'd hazard a guess at scared, angry, betrayed, confused..."  
"Confused? What is there to be confused about? My father is an alcoholic. He doesn't care about my mother and he doesn't care about me." the words were stone cold, emotionless once more. Like they were discussing the weather.  
"Do you think," Ted began, choosing his words carefully, "it was the alcohol that makes him not care, or was he like that before?"  
"He didn't used to hit us."  
"But do you think he used to, um, care?"  
"Not about me." Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at his words, as though he couldn't quite believe he'd been so honest.  
"Why don't you think he cared about you?"  
"I know he didn't."  
"Why?"  
Silence.  
"I'm trying to help..."  
"I don't need help."  
"Just tell me, why didn't he care?"  
"Why don't you ask him."  
Groaning inwardly, the doctor took a sip of coffee. They were back to square one, denial and detachment.  
"Do you care?"  
The boy coked his dark head slightly to indicate not understanding the question.  
"That he hurt your family, and you. Do you care?"  
"I'm fine..."  
"No but your mum, your brother..."  
"He never touched my brother."  
"Ok, but he hurt your mum, do you care about that?"  
"Would caring have stopped it?"  
"No, but..."  
"Will caring help her?"  
"No, but..."  
"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."  
Shocked, first that his patient had finally responded but mostly because he couldn't believe someone could divorce themselves from feelings that easily, Ted tried to bring it back once more and asked,  
"And you find that easy do you?"  
"Yes very. And I thought you were supposed to be helping me, not interrogating me."  
"I thought you didn't need any help."  
The in the silence that followed the tension was almost palpable. He knew he'd made a mistake, both from a professional and emotive point of view. The kid was right, he was supposed to be helping. "Look, Sherlock," Ted spoke quietly, leaning forward to try and regain the boys trust (not that he'd had it in the first place.), "I'm sorry. Just, this will be a whole lot easier if you cooperate. Talk to me."  
"I don't want to."  
This was probably as much information as he was going to get, ted thought, closing his eyes for a second in frustration. And he still had half an hour left.

At the end of the hour Ted had extended his hand once more, but the tall, mysterious boy didn't take it. As soon as he was out of the room the exhausted psychiatrist slumped back into his chair and sighed. He hadn't had a patient like that for months; it was such hard work, like trying to get blood out of a stone, a stone that knew what you were doing and was going to hold onto it's blood as long as it was breathing. And he'd never had a patient that ended the session knowing more about ted than ted knew about them. He pondered what the strange teenager had said, about himself, about the doctor, about Natalie. He really had no idea what to make of it, what was he going to say to Maggie? The boy wasn't damaged in anyway by the incident and certainly didn't need to be forced into another session. But the doctor couldn't help bit be filled with professional interest; how could someone be that clever? How could someone be that detached? Ted knew what a specialist would say, he had dealt with kids with autism and asperger's before, but none of them had been like this. So the question was, could he face another hour with Sherlock Holmes.  
Signing again and glancing at his watch, 9:51, Ted Jackman pressed the intercom for another double espresso.

* * *

**HI! Sorry for making you wait so long, two weeks is almost a record i think! So yeah, this chapter isn't really part of The Gardener's Earring case, but that was so short and crappy i thought i'd put this one in it i guess. I wanted to write it differently because i thought it'd be interesting to see Sherlock from someone else's POV, especially a professional. Don't worry, next case will be better, i promise. Blood, dancing, parties, johnlock, molly, it's gonna be good, hopefully... Also i think chapters will be getting longer but with longer waits, just so that it all fits and stuff. **

**hope you enjoyed, please review, it makes me very happy :) love you all x**


	25. Dressed for Murder - Chapter 1

**HELLOOOO! actually you guys didn't have to wait ages for this chapter, but it's not very eventful, well it is but... i'll just let you read it shall i? very slight SELF HARM WARNING, just a reference but be careful...**

* * *

**Dressed for Murder**  
Chapter 1  
JOHN  
Sherlock hadn't mentioned his visit to the thera... psychiatrist (he needed to stop doing that) and John thought it best not to bring it up... But the curiosity was eating him alive. Obviously he was in sympathy with his friend and could empathise completely, he knew what those sessions where like and they were no picnic, but part of him also felt a little sorry for the poor guy assigned to talk to him, getting information out of Sherlock was difficult enough but emotion? To be honest John doubted he had ever talked about feelings to anyone except him, and he was never particularly loquacious on the subject.  
It was three days later, Wednesday (Sherlock had taken the whole of Monday off after Mycroft, John and his mother insisted, but had been back to school as normal on Tuesday) when John finally decided to bring it up.  
"Sherlock..?" he asked tentatively, accidentally-on-purpose knocking his friend's arm with the Bunsen burner he'd just collected for their physics practical.  
"Yes..?" god it was annoying when he did that. Sherlock had a thing where if he knew what you were about to say (which was always) and didn't want to go down that conversation route, he would lead you on as if he had no idea what you were on about and make you spit it out on your own.  
"Look, you know what I want to talk about..."  
"But I don't want to talk about it."  
"Why?"  
Sherlock remained silent, connecting the Bunsen burner to the gas and reaching for a match.  
"Sherlock please? I'm your friend, I want to know what happened."  
the taller boy sighed and said "It was exactly like I said it would be. Pointless, dull, patronising..."  
"What did he ask you about? I mean aside from, what happened..."  
Sherlock paused again, considering his answer as he lit the flame and set the water boiling.  
"You."  
"Me?! Why did he want to know about me?"  
"Classic psychiatry, ask the client about something they know well and consider significant. Apparently it makes them more willing to talk about other issues."  
John noticed his reluctance to use the word 'patient', but didn't challenge it, after all, his head was kinda busy being filled with happiness and excitement at the fact that to Sherlock he was 'something known well and considered significant'.  
"Well, um, what did you say about me?"  
Sherlock was about to answer when the door closed with a mutter of 'be right back class', and a cat call came from across the room,  
"Hey, freak! I heard what happened to your parents, you must be reaaaallly upseeeet," the boy, John recognised as one of Dimmock's posse - Moran or something - drawled mockingly.  
"Don't..." Sherlock muttered, taking a sudden grip on his friends arm.  
"Is it true you had to go to a therapist?! God what a freak, I feel sorry for the poor guy who got that job!"  
The blonde's heart was in his mouth, he could hear the blood rushing through his head. He hadn't even noticed he'd balled his fists in anger, the tendons taught against his skin.  
"Ignore it..."  
"I guess your dads a psycho too? Maybe it's genetic!" how could they say stuff like that? How?! "I mean, it's either that or he's just a shitty parent and that's why you turned out such a mental case."  
Sherlock's grip tightened, his voice low "John I don't care, don't..."  
"What's your freaky boyfriend saying over there blondie?"  
He was on his feet and standing over the now slightly scared looking boy with no recollection of how he got there. Something solid collided with his fist an there was a sickening crunch, followed by a high pitch scream and shouts of protest and the scraping of chairs. A familiar firm hand grabbed his from behind and pulled him away from Moran. The door crashed open and he heard the booming voice of his teacher over the class.  
"What is going on in here?! Watson what the hell do you think you're doing?!"  
Sherlock almost pulled John's arm out of its socket in an effort to restrain him, he was still struggling furiously, but his grip was still somehow gentle, long fingers stroking the back of johns hand as they tightened, as if in an effort to comfort as well as constrict. Even in a blind rage John felt a fraction more relaxed, that was until he felt the heavy hand of Mr Montague on his shoulder. Panting, he felt his back hit the wall of the classroom as the teacher pushed him away from the others. The screaming had stopped now, at least his classmates had, he could feel his teachers breath in his face as he shouted himself hoarse.  
"What on earth do you think you're doing?!"  
When John didn't answer he continued,  
"You better get up to your head of house's office right this second!"  
"Sir, it wasn't..."  
"No shut up Holmes, don't try and interfere. I'll deal with you in a minute." he turned away from Sherlock, his face red with anger, "well? Get going! Violence is not tolerated at this school!"  
Are you fucking kidding me?! John seriously could not believe he had just said that. Violence was not tolerated? So if he punched Moran once with decent provocation he was in serious trouble but if Dimmock and his gang all joined forces and attacked him and Sherlock with no reasoning that was ok?! He felt angrier now than he had a minute ago; it was a shame he couldn't punch Mr Montague in the face, he deserved it.  
Face almost as red as the teachers, desperately trying not to cry and shaking all over with rage, John turned silently and walked out of the door. The class remained in silent shock until he was supposedly out of earshot; then the whispering and gossiping began in earnest, along with Moran whimpering quietly and Mr Montague muttering about 'worst conduct he'd seen in the school for years'.

From the moment he'd slammed the door, he felt calmer. Still livid at the injustice and his ears still ringing with Moran's insults, but the silence as stillness washed over him like a cool wave. Wiping his face hurriedly on his sleeve, John marched down the hallway towards the stairwell. He had no idea where he was going, what he was going to say or what was going to happen; but at least the corridor was empty. No one would see his tears.  
Tears. They were weird when you thought about it; 'yes I am feeling unhappy, therefore my eyes are going to leak salt water'. And you didn't even have to be sad; anger, confusion, irritation, those days when you were just overwhelmed and you felt you couldn't go on and it just took one thing, one tiny little thing - like running out of milk, or your parents getting annoyed that you'd left a fork on the table - to tip you over the edge. Moran's words had done just that. God, why was he crying? Why did he even care?! Sherlock didn't care... But how could someone say that? How could someone take such a serious issue that could have been causing real damage and take it and laugh?!

Eventually, after almost fifteen minutes of wandering aimlessly and trying to put off the moment of confrontation, John arrived at the heavy oak door. A brass plaque proclaimed it the office of Ms Crawford. He knew it would be better to get it over with, but he just couldn't bring himself to knock. What was he supposed to say? Oh yeah, hi, I just punched a kid in the face and got sent up so you could tell me off, nice weather we're having. He'd never even spoken to his head of house before, he wasn't even 100% sure he'd seen her before. Would she even know who he was? Well, he wasn't going to know unless he knocked on the bloody door was he? Closing his eyes with deep breath, John unclenched his fingers and rapped the door with his still slightly stinging knuckles.

SHERLOCK  
John didn't return all throughout break, although Sherlock suspected Ms Crawford hadn't kept him that long. He was probably avoiding the bullies and the mutterings. Sherlock didn't mind usually, people whispered and gossiped about him all the time, but this was sort of different. He couldn't really explain why, but it was. Maybe it was because this time it was 'wow they're so gay' rather than 'wow he's such a freak', 'oh my god did you see them holding hands' rather than 'oh my god did you hear what he said about Lucy?', 'that blonde kid'll do anything for him', rather than 'he doesn't care about anyone, he's a freaking psychopath!'. Maybe because he'd never had a friend at all and wasn't really sure how to deal with loyalty and defence and protection; caring wasn't an advantage, was it? But John obviously cared.

The only doors in the entire school building that hadn't been painted or replaced were the heads of house's and Ms Blackwell's. Sherlock supposed it was to make them look important and imposing; it didn't really work. It only irritated him that there was no glass, he'd just have to wait for John.

He'd been crying, _tear tracks, slightly bloodshot eyes, face blotchy_, hardly difficult deduction. John closed the door slowly, avoiding the taller boy's gaze.  
"What did she say?"  
He didn't answer, taking a deep, shaking breath he said "I want to go back to the boarding house."  
"Why?" Sherlock felt a bit put out that he'd been forced to talk about the psychiatrist and John got out of this conversation.  
"Sherlock please, don't... Not now..?"  
The minor tremble in his friend's voice was what caught the words in his throat, he wanted to ask why, to know what had happened in there and why John was upset, he shouldn't be upset. He suddenly felt a rush of strange protective instinct, who was allowed to make his friend upset?  
"I'll come with you."  
"No, I uh, want to be alone."  
That was unusual too, he was generally annoyed when Sherlock did anything without him.  
"Tell me. Please?"  
John sighed, "She said it was the first violent incident reported in almost a year, that nothing gave me the right to hit anyone, especially a top student like Moran, that with such a violent nature she was surprised I hadn't been to see her before. She said I should reconsider my choice of friends, that I was 'in with the wrong, very small, crowd'. She said if I couldn't control my temper I shouldn't be hanging around with you and that if I was going to hit someone every time they insulted you I would end up with broken knuckles." he spoke in a monotone, his voice dead sounding, like he'd given up.  
Sherlock didn't really understand or approve this strange protective John had, but he couldn't deny the sudden anger that flared through him. How could be anyone be so stupid as to think things like that? John would never hurt a fly, he wanted to be a doctor for god's sake, how could Ms Crawford think he had a 'violent nature'?! But he didn't really know how to articulate any of this, so he settled with pointing out "She's right there, why did you hit him?"  
"Because I was angry Sherlock! Why can't you understand these things?! He was insulting and insensitive and I'm sick of it." there were beads of moisture glistening in the corners of his eyes again and as he raised his voice in frustration it cracked.  
"But he didn't say anything about you and I don't care..."  
"I know you don't care but I do! You're my best friend and you can't expect me to sit there while people talk to you like that."  
Sherlock was starting to think he understood; John didn't want him to be upset, just as he felt no one should have the right to make John upset. Wow, that was complicated. He'd memorised the entire periodic table, read the entire works of Shakespeare, played all of Bach's most difficult pieces, but this was harder to get his more than capable head around than any of it. Emotions. They made everything complex and illogical and disorganised.  
"Look, I've got to go..." he felt himself pushed sideways and watched, still confused and not sure if he was hurt or happy, as his friend disappeared into the crowd.

MOLLY  
It had been weeks since she'd spoken to him and Molly could feel her heart beat pumping through her head as she approached. He looked confided and, dare she say it, sad; maybe now wasn't a good time...  
"Hey..."  
He turned slowly to face her, looking mildly irritated as always to be pulled out of his thoughts. "Don't feel the need to make conversation Molly, it's not your forte."  
"Uh, yeah... Listen Sherlock," her fingers had started to unconsciously twist behind her back again, "my sister's having a party, and I uh, just wandered if you, and John I guess, wanted to come. It might be fun."  
"It doesn't sound fun."  
Why did he always have to do that? Take your feelings and stomp on them.  
"It might be. You don't have to, I'm just, it's only an invite..." her voice trailed away. She couldn't help but think about the rumours, that they'd held hands in lessons, that they'd run off to Leeds at the weekend. She'd seen the look in both of their eyes, seen how protective John was, but she still wanted to try. It was pathetic, but hey, anyway she could get him there. "John might want to come, you could go together."  
He narrowed his eyes, piercing beautiful eyes, and studied her, before eventually saying "maybe. I will ask him." Well, that was all she could do. At least if he didn't come it was still a party, a party hosted by her popular older sister with plenty of booze and boys. Maybe she could um, 'get off' with someone else. It might not feel as natural but it might take her mind off things.

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**idk, i'm not sure this chapter was reeaaalllly necessary, but i'm sure you guys love a bit on angst as much as i do. anyway, it's all building to a climax...**

**(ps, remember to check out giggle-at-a-crime-scene on tumblr for art and awesomeness and my johnlock shorts too if you want to! it's your life but i'm just putting it out there...) love ya'll x**


	26. DfM - Chapter 2

**Dressed for Murder**  
Chapter 2  
JOHN  
His phone buzzed on the bed sheets as he sat dripping in a towel. Mostly water, but some red still ran of his arm and onto the fuzzy material. It hadn't been an easy day.

_Molly's having a party. She said you might want to go.__  
__S_

He had to read the message about three times before taking it in, this was probably the most unusual text he'd ever got from Sherlock, and that was a high bar.

_What?__  
__J_

_Molly invited us to her sister's party this weekend. She said you might want to go, do you want to go?__  
__S_

Well, it could be fun, he supposed. Molly's older sister, Olivia Jean Hooper, was very popular and that meant there would be a lot of new people and John liked meeting new people. However it also meant Dimmock and alcohol. After what happened to Harry he wasn't sure he wanted to be in that sort of atmosphere. Then again, it could be his only chance of attending something like this and regaining some social status...

_Could be fun__  
__J___

_I highly doubt it__  
__S_

_We could go together..?__  
__J___

_I feared you would say that__  
__S___

_There might be some interesting people__  
__J___

_Unlikely__  
__S___

_Oh Sherlock don't be so antisocial, it'll be fun. Please, you know__  
__Molly is only inviting me so you'll go__  
__J___

_Why?__  
__S_

Oh Jesus. Pressing the towel against his arm to stop the blood dripping onto the carpet, John groaned at his friends ineptitude and typed:

_She likes you, you know that! She clearly wants you to come and thinks I'll be able to persuade you__  
__J___

_She thought wrong__  
__S___

_Oh really? We'll see about that.__  
__J___

_It's not going to work__  
__S__  
_  
Acknowledging that he was probably right but not prepared to give up yet, John wracked his brains for anything Sherlock could possibly find interesting at a house party.

_What about the possible murders and cases we could stumble upon?__  
__J___

_No one's going to get murdered at Molly's party__  
__S___

_You never know. And it could be advantageous to know a bit about the group psychology of these things.__  
__J___

_I know about group psychology already.__  
__S_  
_  
__You do?! I would never have guessed :P__  
__J___

_I understand perfectly John. I don't need to go one of Molly's sisters stupid gatherings and I don't need your :P__  
__S_

Ok maybe pleading was the way to go now.

_Please come with me?__  
__J___

_You're annoying__  
__S__  
_  
"Well then, we'll just have to see how you cope without talking to me," John muttered, locking his phone and getting up to search the floor for a T-shirt. Five minutes tops.  
Three minutes later it vibrated and John grinned victoriously. But it wasn't Sherlock, it was his mum.

_Hi darling, just to say that Harry will definitely be home for the holidays as she says she can't wait to see you..._

He snorted, there's no way Harry had said that.

_I hope you're alright, I haven't heard from you in a while. How are you and all your friends? Please call me soon honey, I worry about you.__  
__Love mum x_

So to conclude, another cringe-worthy text from his mother. But at least it was confirmed he would get to see her again in the holidays; he missed her. John hated to admit it, he'd told her was fine to be away so long, and he was, he'd managed, he had Sherlock, but he did miss her. And, he hated himself even more for even thinking it, he did miss Harry. A bit. They used to be closer, but the incident and the drinking had kinda made her a bitch. She was shut in her room all day and out partying all night, he barely saw her. It was this that made him wary of going to Olivia Jean's party, who knew what could happen, but at the same time it could be fun. And he was interested in seeing Sherlock around people in a real social situation, and being with him in an atmosphere where signs of affection (although probably not theirs) were accepted, and were couples danced and held hands and sneaked upstairs alone. Yes, it could be very interesting indeed.

...

"Ready?" he asked before reaching up to knock on the front door.  
Sherlock sighed, the cool autumn breeze ruffling his hair and catching the bottom of his long coat. He was overdressed, really, for something this casual, but John had never seen him out of a collar and cuff shirt except for when he was in pyjamas. The muted purple made it a bit less formal, John had eventually persuaded him to wear it, and although this had been his reasoning, it wasn't really his motivation. The flattering fabric, slight shine, close fit and straining buttons was why it was his personal favourite... "As I'll ever be."  
Sighing, it was going to be a harrowing evening, John rapped three times on the varnished wood.  
The door opened and a barrage of light and sound hit them. Loud, rhythmical music blasted into their ears, intense and vibrant light in various colours poked at their eyes. Molly Hooper stood in the doorway, beaming. it took John a few seconds to recognise her, she looked completely different. She looked pretty hot actually. Black fabric clung to her body down to just above her knees, the thin straps and top of the neckline were set with tiny diamanté that reflected the multi-coloured light like a disco ball. Her mousy hair was unusually shiny, it too caught the light and looked soft and healthy. Half piled lavishly on top of her head, half cascading in ringlets over her shoulders and down her back. A silver ribbon rosette perched on top like a Christmas present. Her usually chapped lips were smooth and pale pink; her dark eyes were surrounded by shimmering eye shadow that perfectly complimented her dress.  
"Holy Mary..." John's mouth fell open as she grinned welcomingly,  
"Hi! Come in, come in. I'm so glad you two could make it!"  
"Already saying hello to each other, how wonderful..." Sherlock muttered, earning himself a jab in the ribs from his friend.  
"You can put your coats there if you want," she was having to almost shout over the music, "everyone's in here. I'll introduce you to my sister."

The hall was cramped but homely; clean carpet, faded wallpaper and countless photographs. Childhood snaps all around the mirror, school photographs of both girls that spanned five years, framed wedding memoirs on an old dresser. The sight of a still content and living couple kissing on the happiest day of their life filled John with sadness. His mother kept her wedding photos in a locket round her neck.

Molly led them through into an open plan living area which connected to the kitchen via an archway and chefs hatch. The walls were painted white and the floor was plain wood, giving the room a modern look, almost like a dance hall. Bodies pressed against them on all sides, Molly's sister must be even more popular than they'd guessed. The room was filled with the smell of sweat and drink mixed with various perfumes and scents. All colours of the rainbow bombarded them, bright flirtatious red, subtle pale pink, cool forget-me-not blue, calming leaf green, a kaleidoscope of colour. Most people were casually dressed, although many of the girls wore more formal dresses. Molly looked as though she'd made the most effort.  
"Ok," Molly hissed as they neared a granite topped breakfast bar where two girls and an older boy John recognised as one off the rugby team sat giggling, "try not to upset her, she'll be really annoyed if anything ruins this party." then out loud she said "Livvy, these are my friends, Sherlock Holmes and John... sorry..."  
"Watson," he muttered as the back they were talking to turned around.  
Olivia Jean Hooper had clearly been more blessed by puberty than her sister, even now when Molly had spent so much time on her appearance, Olivia seemed like she'd just rolled out of bed, thrown on a dress and dabbed at her face with a touch of makeup and was still drop dead gorgeous. She too wore a tight and rather short dress that hugged her ample figure, with thin and floaty fabric falling across one shoulder, although she had opted for a more fun and flirty orange colour that complimented her fine blonde hair.  
"Oh," she smiled, flashing brilliant white teeth. Her voice was like soft feather down and smooth honey and, Jesus Christ calm down Romeo, John mentally slapped himself. She's just a girl. He'd worked out a strategy to always look back at his date in situations like this to remind him of her virtues and not make her jealous or annoyed. God knows he'd managed to piss off a lot of girls in his time. Of course, this time they weren't a her, and he highly doubted Sherlock would notice or care about his admiration of Olivia Hooper. "So you're the famous Sherlock Holmes, Molly never stops taking about you."  
Molly blushed and coughed awkwardly. John's eyes narrowed in a burst of unnecessary possessiveness and jealousy.  
"Anyway, alcohol's in the fridge, food's on the table, toilet's upstairs on the right, bedroom's on the left," she gave them an exaggerated wink, "and the party is everywhere so go have fun and don't you dare trash my house." she flashed another smile and turned back to her friend, but Molly tapped her on the shoulder. "What Molly?!"  
"Just, remember what I said about, you know, Dimmock and Anderson..?"  
"Yeah yeah," Livvy rolled her deep chocolate brown eyes, "I remember. Look nothing's going to happen ok Molly? Now take a chill pill and leave me alone!"

SHERLOCK  
Two football players in the corner where both cheating on their girlfriends with the same girl. The tall brunette surrounded by idiotic lumbering sports captains was a closet lesbian, more interested in the host than any of the guests. Judging from the ceiling and loud noises from upstairs, Anderson had finally managed to get Sally Donavan alone. Dull, pointless. Why was he even here again? Of course, John had asked him.  
"Do you want to, uh, get a drink or something?" the nervous voice of his aforementioned friend jerked Sherlock from his thoughts.  
He shrugged.  
"Right, well, I'm going to. Do you want anything? I'm assuming non-alcoholic?"  
"I'm fine. Thank you."  
John rolled his eyes and turned to walk back to the fridge, leaving Sherlock standing awkwardly in the middle of the crowded room wishing he'd gone with him. He sat down and continued to study the people around him. Nothing much of interest really, nothing new.

But then...  
"Hello," a soft, seductive, slightly husky female voice close to his left ear. Sherlock jumped slightly, he hadn't heard her approaching over the loud music. "You're not someone I'd expect to show up here."  
He heard the rustle of her skirts as she sat down next to him on the arm of the chair and turned to study her.  
Dark brown hair with paler roots shaped and twisted up behind her head, secured with a pin inlayed with sapphires. Blood red lipstick, jet black mascara and smokey eye shadow. She wore an ivory dress with a skirt that started just below her hip, full circle with three underskirts. The main body was ribbed satin, pulling in her waist and flattening her stomach; gathered lace made up an illusion neckline. But even with all this to work with, Sherlock couldn't read a single thing. Wandering momentarily if there was something wrong with him, he turned back to the pulsating mass of people and picked one girl he recognised from the year above.

_sleeping with the hockey player in the corner, plans a career in journalism but her parents are worried she won't get the required grades because she spends all her time partying and drinking, her skirts longer than the others to hide the varicose veins from the long walks to school, she can't afford the bus_

Ok, so he was fine, there was just something wrong with her. He turned back to see her smile, licking her lip slightly. John did that...  
"Cat got your tongue?"  
"Who are you?"  
"You don't know? I thought you were Sherlock Holmes, the freak who could tell everyone about themselves until they ended up punching you in the face?!"  
"I don't concern myself with school yard trivia."  
She smirked again, crossing her left leg over her right so that the toe of her white stiletto was poking him in the calf, and purred "Irene Adler. Pleasure's all yours..."  
He raised an eyebrow.  
"Care to dance?"  
Well, that was sudden, t a new and unexpected experience that unnerved him, "I decline. I detest dancing."  
But warm fingers closed around his own and he felt he arm jerk.  
"Oh come on!"  
And then they were jostling through the crowd and swaying to the fast beat of the music.

Fascinating, Sherlock thought as she forcibly wrapped her arms around his neck, fascinating what some people see as entertaining. He had to admit she was interesting, unlike anyone he'd ever conversed with before, she was alluring, unusual, attractive... But it was a very new, very different, very strange type of attraction, not protective or stable or close like his attraction and relationship with John; it was impulsive, electric, worryingly distracting.  
"What are you doing?" he asked. She smelt nice, he noticed as they drew closer, not the usual smells he liked - spearmint, new books, gun powder, old and warn out leather, shoe polish, the smell of johns well-loved and hideous jumpers- but like bottled scent, wild cherries and orchids and lust.  
"_We_ are dancing." she grinned and he felt her hip bone digging into him as she leaned back, what was she doing?  
"I'm not doing anything," Sherlock muttered, glancing over his shoulder.  
"Aww, don't worry sweetie," she stood on tiptoe and pressed her soft lips against his neck to whisper "your boyfriend can't see us now. Besides, you promised me one dance."  
"I did no such thing!"  
Irene rolled her eyes, just like John did when Sherlock had made a 'social mistake', "there's such a thing as a non-verbal agreement, you know," and spun him round the other way once more.  
"There is?"  
She let put an exasperated whimper and he felt her lips brush against his earlobe, "You poor deprived boy..."  
"Sixtee..."  
"Oh I don't mean in terms of age," she laughed incredulously, "you're impossible."  
Sherlock had come to expect the jolt of serotonin and dopamine at any reference that reminded him of John. "So I've been informed."  
"By whom? Blondie?"  
He didn't answer, merely staring into her eyes, the colour of the sea on British beaches, cold blue, steel grey and murky brown. "He made you come didn't he?"  
"He asked me to come yes."  
"And you came?"  
"Obviously."  
"Even though you detest social situations and pointless, boring events like this?"  
"Yes."  
"Wow," she said, taking one of his limply hanging hands and sliding it over her hip, "you must really like him. He's a very lucky guy."

JOHN  
The cold bottles almost slipped from his hands as he returned to the main room (yes bottles, he'd got a coke or Sherlock too in case he changed his mind). Sherlock Holmes, his Sherlock Holmes, was dancing. And not dancing with him. And not only not with him but with a beautiful girl in the year above. John felt the jealousy rear up inside him, what the hell was going on? A heavy weight of insecurity and confusion dropped into the pit of his stomach as a hand clamped down on his shoulder.  
"Aw man, is that your boyfriend dancing with a girl?!" Dimmock. "and a girl that's not you?!"  
Laughter.  
His whole body tensed and Dimmock chuckled. "I seem to have a touched a nerve boys," John closed his eyes briefly, counting to ten and willing himself not to react.  
"Hey David, drop it!" Livvy's smooth voice carried over to him, he felt the weight leave his shoulder and relaxed.  
"What? It's a just a bit of fun Liv..."  
"Molly'll kill me if anything happens to them, and she'll end up telling mum and dad about this and then I'm screwed ok? Plus, I don't want people ending up with broken noses today. So just drop it."  
John still didn't turn around but he heard dimmock shrug and walk away, snickering. So he'd broken Moran's nose, well that was nice to know. Ugh, no. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear it. Sherlock, right he had to get to Sherlock.

Sweat and heat and perfume radiated all around him, bodies tightly packed together on the edge of the dance floor, an excitable and nervous herd of horses just waiting for their go on the show ring. The room was so crowded and the music so loud John was starting to get a headache. He couldn't see the curly head of his friend anywhere. The jealousy rose up again, why was he dancing with some stupid girl?! The sound of his pulse was clear through his head, he could hear it above the music, pounding and irregular, a sure sign of his increasing stress.

And suddenly Sherlock was right up on his personal space, why did he have this habit of just appearing from nowhere?  
"Jeez, Sherlock..."  
"What?"  
"Just, personal space. We talked about this."  
He smirked, taking the shorter boy's wrists lightly between his fingers as if taking a pulse, which of course made John's heartbeat skyrocket.  
The music changed; heavy drum and bass swapping for a haunting guitar melody and Latin feel. Recognising the chords, John hurriedly blurted out "I like this song..."  
"Really."  
He paused, letting Sherlock have a moment to think over what he'd said, then smirking and saying "you really are hopeless you know."  
"Sorry?"  
"Even you must know 'I like this song' is universal code for 'dance with me'?"  
"It is? Interesting."  
"Well I just thought, you were dancing with whatever her name is..."  
"Irene Adler."  
"Yeah, so, uh, do you want to dance with me?" he felt his cheeks flush and looked down slightly embarrassed.  
"Yes."  
His head snapped up. "Yes?"  
"Yes."

_Whenever I'm alone with you__  
__You make me feel like I am home again__  
__Whenever I'm alone with you__  
__You make me feel like I am whole again_

Sherlock lead him confidently into the swiftly swapping crowd, walking backwards with both his hands loosely clasping johns fingers, individuals hurried off the dance floor and couples calmly took their place. Couples. And that included Sherlock and John, they were a couple really, whatever they tried to deny.

_Whenever I'm alone with you__  
__You make me feel like I am young again_

Heart pounding but strangely relaxed, John twisted his hands slowly to take the taller boys in his own. He leaned closer as they began to sway slowly in time, surprised by Sherlock's seeming lack of awkwardness. Well, it was usually John who hated public signs of affection and everyone staring and gossiping, but right now their words didn't matter and or once he couldn't feel their stares boring into his back.

Their hands wound tighter, still hanging oddly at their sides. John grinned to himself at the unconventional position. Staring up into Sherlock's eyes, he slipped his fingers free, receiving a confused look in the process, and stood on tiptoe to cross them behind the curly head.

_Whenever I'm alone with you__  
__You make me feel like I am fun again_

He'd been planning to ask about this Irene girl, who she was, what Sherlock was doing with her, if it meant anything, but now with the music and the dancing and those eyes staring at him with such, what seemed to be, admiration and contentment and, could it be desire? all else faded away from his mind.

_However far away I will always love you_

Sherlock still looked a little confused, his hands hanging limply at his sides. John smiled exasperatedly at his incompetence and lowered one hand to take Sherlock's.

_However long I stay I will always love you_

Slowly, he guided it to his own waist and pulled it gently down until it rested on the small of his back.

_Whatever words I say I will always love you__  
__I will always love you_

Sherlock seemed to understand at last, he brought his other hand round to the smaller boy's back and smiled questioningly, his 'did I get that right?' look. Nodding slightly, John leaned in closer until his head was nestled within the purple folds. He felt the gentle pressure of his friend's chin on the tip of his head and closed his eyes, smiling. Swaying together as the guitar became the focus again when the vocals fell silent.

"I'm surprised you've made it this long without criticising the song," John observed, his friend was usually all too eager to find flaws in 'this detestable modern music'.  
"There's nothing to criticise," he said simply, adding as an afterthought "yet."  
"Really? Nothing wrong at all..?"  
"The lyrics make sense, the rhythm is sensible and the melody is tuneful."  
"Well that's a first, maybe we've found our song?"  
"Our song?" Sherlock asked, evidently confused.  
"Well, uh," god how was John going to explain this, "a lot of um, well couples I guess, have like a song they always play, like a theme or a motif or something..."  
"That's absurd." he felt his stomach drop a little as Sherlock dismissed the idea, but then his friend continued "although, I like to make you happy and I think I'm beginning to like this song. Maybe we have uh, 'found our song'."

_Whenever I'm alone with you__  
__You make me feel like I am clean again_

Without warning John felt his body twist and then he was facing outward, his arms crossed across his chest, hands still linked with that of his perfect friend behind him.  
"What are you doing?" he giggled softly, leaning his head back onto Sherlock's shoulder.  
"Dancing," the dark haired boy replied, smiling.

_However far away I will always love you_

One moment. It was just him and Sherlock and the soft rhythm of the music; a slow beat keeping their usually uneven steps in time, gentle strumming of guitars relaxing their usual nerves around this type of crowd, the simple yet eerily beautiful melody bringing them closer and ever closer. Dimmock could see them, Moran, Anderson (if he and Donavan were finally finished in the bedroom), Irene, Molly... But right now it didn't matter.

_However long I stay I will always love you_

"Sherlock..?"  
"What?" Sherlock was so close that John could feel his breath on his ear lobe.  
"Well, uh... I think Donavan and Anderson might be done upstairs..."  
"So? Why do you care?"  
"Well, the bedroom's free..."  
"Are you suggesting..."  
"Oh god, no. I mean, just to get away..."

_Whatever words I say I will always love you__  
__I will always love you_

"Oh..." he still sounded a little confused and, could that be a nervous pause?  
The blonde chuckled, "come on." and now he was leading, pulling Sherlock by his purple cuffs as the song drew to its close. Without the music there he could hear them gossiping in earnest, but for once he ignored it, continuing towards the hallway.

That was when a girl with a terrified expression and a tight red dress burst into the room. Her screams echoed off the walls, and then she collapsed into the arms of the nearest footballer, who promptly dropped her.


	27. DfM - Chapter 3

**Dressed for Murder**  
**Chapter 3ish**

**basically im not done with this chapter but i just feel so bad for not updating in ages so here you go**

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JOHN  
The rest of the guests began to panic now, shouts of 'someone call an ambulance' and 'oh my god Gloria!' and 'is she ok?!' . Sherlock tore his arm away from John and rushed forward, taking the girl's pulse at her neck.  
"Get off her you pervert freak!" A male voice from the back of the room.  
"He's not..." John began angrily and was joined by Livvy,  
"Dave he's not doing..."  
"Shut up all of you I'm trying to take a pulse!"  
The room fell silent.  
"She's fine," Sherlock pronounced, standing up and grabbing a beer can out of the nearest hand. It's owner protested, but it was too late. Sherlock pulled the ring and threw the contents in the girls face. The crowd gasped and Livvy groaned "I'll get a cloth..."  
John and a girl in black rushed forward to help the spluttering Gloria to her feet. They hauled her into a chair and waited for her to speak; the girl in black, who John now recognised as Jasmine White in his year, patted her coughing friend on the back.  
"What the hell did you do that for?!" she shot at Sherlock.  
"If I hadn't she could have been out cold for hours," he replied, striding over to stand above them. "What happened?"  
Gloria's full lower lip trembled as she whispered "Jennifer, oh god..." her face was deathly pale and her eyes growing moist.  
John caught Sherlock rolling his eyes as he said "yes, but what happened?!"  
"She's, she's... Jennifer she's on the bed upstairs, blood everywhere..."  
Gasps and mutterings echoed around the room. Someone screamed.  
Olivia, John and Sherlock all sprang for the door; closely followed by Dimmock and three others of the rugby team. They pounded up the stairs and burst through a door on the left, knocking an old sock of the handle in the process.

The body of a slim girl lay face down on the rumpled sheets. Both her shocking pink dress and the bed were soaked in blood. Livvy gasped and tried to reach out and touch her, but Sherlock threw out an arm.  
"Don't touch anything."  
He moved forward slowly, putting two fingers to her neck.  
Silence.  
"She's dead."  
Olivia's hand flew to her mouth, tears swelling in her eyes. Dimmock swore loudly and someone from behind the door called "we should call the police."  
The others nodded in subdued agreement but again Sherlock stopped them.  
"Not yet, they'll just ruin all our fun..."  
"Sherlock..." John hissed reproachfully, but it was too late.  
"Fun?! My best friend is dead!" Livvy exclaimed angrily.  
"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping to go deeper." John sighed, sherlock was enjoying himself now and nothing he said was going to make any difference.  
"Sherlock we should all the police..."  
Sherlock shot him a hurt and irritated look and grudging agreed. Dimmock volunteered and John heard him mutter 'physco' as he jogged downstairs.

SHERLOCK  
Finally, something interesting! The gardener business had all been over so quickly and then weeks of nothing and boredom. And here was another body, another puzzle. Not for the first time this evening he was glad John had made him come.  
So, Jennifer, Jennifer... Ah of course, Jennifer Wilson, year 13. You could tell her from a mile away, she always wore that sickening bright pink.

l_arge patch of blood on sheets directly around her midriff, lack of blood on her back suggests she was attacked face on. Someone who knew her then, someone she talked to. Blood spatters on her cloths, face and around the room suggest a violent killer, weapon probably a sharp object, most likely a repeated stabbing._

Ignoring the shocked and puzzled look on Olivia's face and John's amused yet exasperated expression, Sherlock knelt down to look under the bed. Yep, just as he'd thought. Blood dripping through the mattress onto the floor, must have been a deep wound. A pink handbag lay half under the wooden boards, he grabbed it and straightened up.  
"Hey, I thought we couldn't touch anything?" Olivia sounded annoyed even through the nasal voice of someone trying not to cry.  
Giving her a '_you_ can't touch anything' look and John a 'this is so exciting and she's ruining it' look, he wrenched open the zip.

_small pink hand mirror; mascara, lipstick and eyeliner, shows her vanity and slight self consciousness. A purse in (you guessed it) pale pink, containing two crisp ten pound notes, clearly just drawn from the cash point, planning ahead. A mobile in a pink case, 134 contacts (how did one person even know that many people?! He only had 4 names in his address book...) highlights her popularity, well it was pretty obvious she was popular if she was at Olivia Jean Hooper's house party._

"Sherlock," John groaned, "you can't... You can't just go through her stuff, the police will be here any minute..."  
The distance sounds of sirens were easy to distinguish in the quiet of the house and peaceful village.  
"Fine." why were they all determined to bore him when someone else was being so delightfully interesting? Maybe he could convince sergeant Barnard to let him... No, Barnard still didn't trust him since the kidnapper incident.  
Ah well, he'd just have to flatter his way into the morgue. Again.  
Molly's mother was a chief examiner their and if he took Molly with him he very often got what he wanted.

The guests were all being held downstairs, being interviewed; only Olivia, John and Sherlock remained in the bedroom with sergeant Barnard and the forensics officers. Just as Sherlock had concluded, there was no murder weapon or object that could do that amount of damage anywhere to be found.

"Is there any object you own that could have inflicted wounds this deep?" a tiered looking officer was asking Livvy; she was still fighting back tears.  
"I suppose a kitchen knife, but I would have seen if anyone was taking stuff from the kitchen, we were all downstairs."  
"And did you..."  
But he was cut off by the arrival of a stocky boy with brown hair, a darker shade than johns sandy, dirty blonde, but lighter than Molly's mousy colour. He wore a cuff and collar shirt, but it was a lot less formal than sherlock's, an jeans - clearly an invitee. But he entered the room with such confidence, as if he knew everyone there and had been to countless murder scenes. Of course, Sherlock mentally scolded, he had.  
"Dad," the boy started, "what's...?"  
"Greg, I told you to wait downstairs with the others!"  
Greg... Greg... no, didn't ring any bells.  
"No one even knows what's happening dad, you have to tell people..."  
"I think I know how to do my job son, now get back downstairs before the sergeant throws you out!"  
"But I..."  
"Gregory Lestrade! You get of this crime scene and back to the others, now!"  
Lestrade... Lestrade, Sherlock did know that name... Of course, officer Lestrade was on Barnard's team, this must be his son. Come to think of it, Sherlock did remember seeing him around school, he was probably in the same year.  
"Alright alright," Lestrade raised his hands in mock surrender, "I'm leaving... Jesus..." but Sherlock saw him glance over at the files Barnard had left heaped unprofessionally on a chair. The boy must have sensed Sherlock's eyes on him because he looked up, and upon seeing to two of them standing around the body turned back to his father.  
"How come they're here then?!"  
The officer sighed, "Mr Holmes is here because he found the body and is very helpful for the investigation," (Sherlock heard him mutter 'and we can't get him to leave.) "and um..." he trailed off, looking at John.  
"He's with me," Sherlock announced.  
"Yeah but..."  
"I said he's with me."  
Greg looked the two of them up and down and raised an eyebrow. John blushed,  
"Not _wit_h me..." he said hurriedly.  
Sherlock wasn't very good at understanding things like this but he couldn't help feeling slightly hurt and confused when John hid their relationship - was that was it was? - from people. He knew that, especially being brought up by a Christian mother, his friend feared being judged and ridiculed. Plus there was the constant threat of Dimmock and his gang; Sherlock didn't care what they thought, but he did care when they threw him or his only friend against a wall. Still, John wasn't alone, they could face the disapproval together. Every time the blond denied it Sherlock couldn't help feel doubtful, maybe John was ashamed of _him_... Still, he didn't want to cause a scene so he made a mental note in the 'John Watson' part of his mind palace, they could talk about it later.  
Greg simply nodded, but he still looks skeptical, and headed to the door. He poked his head back through however, and asked innocently "her boyfriend's downstairs by the way, just thought he aught to know, oh and he was probably the last person to see her alive. Maybe you want to talk to him I don't know...?" and with that he left the room.  
"Damn it..." his father muttered, he turned to Barnard, "we should probably..."  
His senior nodded.  
Sighing, he told Olivia she could leave and yelled "Greg!" down the stairs.  
His son appeared so fast Sherlock could only assumed he had been waiting. Wearing a smug smile he asked "yes dad?"  
"Could you fetch the young man up for questioning... please?"  
With another satisfied grin Greg vanished down the stairs.

* * *

**HOLY FUCKING SHIT I AM SO SORRY :'(**

**god i am such a terrible terrible person :( ive left you so long ugh! dont worry guys i am not abandoning this story, i know exactly where the plot is going im just finding it difficult to get there... so again, im sorry its been ages, im sorry this chapter is short and crappy and im sorry that im going on holiday on sunday and you probably wont get another update until i get back...  
in the mean time you could check out my two sets of johnlock shorts or my cross over with supernatural if you wanted. you could also send me a prompt, shorts are a lot easier to get done at the moment, in a review, PM or tumblr message. and i do have exciting news that im entering this let's write sherlock challenge with an angsty teenlock song fic, so thats coming up too. **

**thank you for your continued support even if it is shown through 5 angry tumblr anons telling me to hurry the fuck up. ily all x**


	28. DfM - Chapter 4

**HEY GUYS! so yeah, again I am really _really _sorry that this was so late. i won't blabber on with excuses and whatever but yeah i just haven't got round to it and all that jazz. And again, idk if i'm 100% sure about this chapter... but then again i always have some doubts about what i upload and you've waited long enough. good news however, i know where i am going now and the plan for each chapter so hopefully you shouldn't be waiting as long. no promises tho... ;) **

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Chapter 4  
JOHN  
Jennifer Wilson's boyfriend was, to put it frankly, huge. Not fat, not even particularly tall (but compared with John most people were tall...), just... big; he was clearly on the rugby team. Everything about him was perfectly normal, yet screamed intimidating. John couldn't help but take a side step away from Sherlock. The gargantuan older boy clearly noticed however as he smirked, "you can relax, I'm not one of Dimmock's posse, you and your boyfriend are safe."  
"He's not..." the words came out like a reflex reaction. It wasn't really denial anymore, just procedure, self-defence. He wasn't sure, but out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Sherlock twitch at his words.  
The boy raised an eyebrow but turned to Greg, "look, this is very difficult and I'd rather wait to talk to the police..."  
But Sherlock interrupted, "I'm afraid it can't wait," he said in an authoritative yet somehow sympathetic (very unlike him) voice, "the police are planning to keep the house on lock down until they've got a statement and contact details from everyone."  
Anger flashed across the already red face and the boy, who was at least three inches taller than Sherlock and about double the width, jabbed a finger the younger boy's chest. He was clearly about to shout some insult or threat and another, different, reflex reaction stirred within John's chest. He moved forward to step between them but they were saved a kafuffle by the arrival of Greg's dad, who led Jennifer's now ex-boyfriend over to be questioned. Sherlock immediately went after them and John would have followed, but Greg was suddenly in front of him and starting a conversation.  
"Greg Lestrade, my dad's the sergeant... but I guess you got that..."  
"John Watson."  
"So…" he said slowly, looking over his shoulder as if to check Sherlock had gone, "you're the new guy aren't you?"  
For someone who was quite well traveled, you would expect John would be used to being 'the new guy', but this was only the first time (apart from his first joining secondary school in year 7, but everyone was new then...) he had been. He sighed, not really wanting to discuss it, but Greg seemed like a nice enough guy and to be honest he could use more friends than Sherlock and Molly (he didn't even know if he was still friends with Molly, she probably suspected what was going on between him and Sherlock and only put up with it because she was infatuated just like John was).  
"Yes, yeah I moved at the start of the year."  
"And the first thing you did was join up with Sherlock Holmes?" the only slightly (thank god) taller boy laughed. Yep, John thought, there it is. Here comes the laughing and the scepticism and the disapproval.  
He sighed and said "look, he was the first person to talk to me and he's actually a really decent guy and..."  
"Hey, I wasn't saying you shouldn't have!" Greg cut across him, "it's just not something people normally do..."  
"Yeah, I've been told." John said, still unsure if he liked this boy or not. It was strange really, thinking about all that Sherlock had done for him, that he didn't have more friends. Then again, he doubted anyone would bother trying to get beneath the antisocial shell like he had. And he couldn't deny, whilst he was never bored, it certainly wasn't easy being Sherlock's friend.  
Greg grinned at him and said "it's a good thing! Honestly, he could do with having a friend... or..." he trailed off, clearly hoping John would jump in and correct him.  
But the blond stated firmly "Friend."  
"Yeah, well whatever you guys have got going on, I think it's good. You make a good couple - " John couldn't help his stomach doing a backflip. Was it really that obvious? "- of friends." Greg finished and John relaxed. Not completely though. He was thinking now about if his true relationship really was that visible. He had been planning to ask Sherlock if he wanted to come up for Christmas, but maybe if it was that clear they were together he shouldn't... His mother wasn't exactly the disowning type but he knew she wouldn't be happy, wouldn't accept it. She'd tell him it was a choice and he was making the wrong one in the eyes of God. She'd lecture him about 'being too young to know', how he was 'just experimenting', how he was 'confused'. No shit, of course he was confused! John was a firm believer in getting things done, but telling his mum about him and Sherlock was something he would gladly put off forever.

Sherlock appeared to be having an argument with Greg's father, probably to do with the fact that he wasn't supposed to be here now that the officers were collecting statements and taking photographs. They'd even put the tape up; not that that ever stopped Sherlock... Eventually he raised his eyebrows and strode back over to John.  
"Are we leaving?"  
He shrugged, "it appears so. Apparently only registered police officers are allowed to be present when a witness is giving their statement."  
"So..." John asked, failing to see what they were going to get around this, "what do we do?"  
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but Greg, who had been hanging uncomfortably behind them chimed in "I could always ask my dad..."  
But Sherlock said simply "We're going to gather our own statements." then smirked and ran off down the stairs. Sighing, John turned to the older boy behind him.  
"Thanks for, um..." he gestured down the stairs, "he's always like that... I should probably..."  
"Yeah, yeah. Um, would you mind if I, uh..."  
John smiled, it looked as though he had made another, slightly more normal friend. "Sure." he smiled.

The first person they spoke to was Molly, purely because she had come over and although John could tell Sherlock just wanted to be rid of her, he felt bad about shunning her. She was obviously shaken, but apart from that seemed unharmed.  
"Is everything alright? Well, obviously not... I mean..." she stammered, blushing and avoiding eye contact, "are the police sorting everything out? Are we free to go?" even though the question was directed at Sherlock, it was Greg who answered. John thought he noticed a faint flush in the older boy's cheeks. That was going to complicate things, what did that make it then, a lopsided love square? John didn't think Molly was going notice Greg when she was still so desperately clinging onto Sherlock. Then again, she still couldn't even look him in the eye. Despite feeling sorry for her and knowing that Sherlock had no interest in her at all, John couldn't help feeling jealous and a little annoyed when she insisted on talking and blushing and biting her lip like that. He supposed he was just still angry about Irene whatever her name was, he had wanted to talk to Sherlock about her there and then, but the dancing and the murder had driven it from his mind. There were so many things he wanted to talk about... He'd been meaning to ask about Sherlock's parents too; if his dad was being charged, if his mum was alright, if he had to go back to the thera... psychiatrist...

"And did you see anyone in the kitchen during the evening who shouldn't have been there?" the low and urgent voice brought John back from his musings.  
"Well, there were a lot of people in the kitchen. I mean, that's where the food and the booze was, people were going in and out all evening."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, his 'typical' face, and asked "is there anyone who would have a grudge against the dead girl?"  
"Jennifer Wilson?" Molly laughed, "oh yeah, lots. She was, well, I don't want to speak ill of the dead..."  
"Just say it Molly." Sherlock prompted exasperatedly, obviously in a hurry to go and find a more useful witness.  
"Well, she wasn't very nice really. Big gossip, serial adulterer, if you can believe the rumours..." she looked suddenly shocked at herself and said hurriedly "but I don't know much about it all, really... I should..." she trailed off nervously as her sister appeared in the hallway. Sherlock nodded curtly, giving her permission to leave but Greg called out "bye Molly..." and gave her a small, awkward wave. "What?" he asked, turning a definite crimson as the other gave him looks of confusion, scepticism and mirth in turn.  
Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock moaned "Typical, anyone could have taken a weapon from the kitchen and she was universally hated. Great. So almost everyone's a suspect."  
John could feel himself yawning, it was around midnight now and to be honest he didn't really enjoy spending his evenings around dead bodies. His whole body practically ached for his, admittedly uncomfortable, dorm bed. Of course he wanted to find out who killed the girl, of course he did; but the idea of staying up all night conducting Sherlock's idea of interviews honestly made him want to crash on the sofa. Sherlock must have noticed as he said, uncharacteristically anxiously, "are you alright?"  
"Yeah, yeah just tiered. Was it true what you said to her boyfriend? Are we free to go?"  
He shrugged, "I suppose so once they've made a list of everyone here and their contact details."  
Looking around at the near one hundred people, John groaned. It couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

**so yeah, lestrolly... idk what their official ship name is but thats what i call them. yeah thats just gonna be a subplot type thing so sorry if you dont ship it but you know its not like a major thing.**

**my tumblr is whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp, i love getting comments, prompts and just you guys saying hi so please come and talk to me or have a look at my blog idk **

**love ya'll :)**


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